


A Small and Passing Thing

by Lindelea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindelea/pseuds/Lindelea
Summary: The Healing of the Shire. Comprising chapters taken from the latter pages of the Red Book. Books end in victory, but in actuality, the road goes ever ever on.
Relationships: Estella Bolger/Merry Brandybuck, Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

_Far above the Ephel Duath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach._ \-- Return of the King, by J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Land of the Shadow”

  
After the Fairbairns had properly greeted Samwise, taking from him his soaking cloak, showing him to the best chair in the parlour, propping his feet before the fire and giving him a cup of tea fixed to his taste (after each grandchild had taken a turn bestowing a hug and a kiss, of course), the whole family settled down about him, the littlest ones on the hearthrug, the biggest ones scattered about on chairs, with little Rose on the footstool at her grandfather’s feet, playing with the snowy curls atop his toes.

‘Minds me of how you used to read to us after supper, Dad,’ Elanor said, picking up some small breeches with a tear in one knee and applying her needle to their repair. ‘Do you remember how we’d gather round, all who were old enough to sit up, and hear the tales from the Red Book?’

’Indeed I do, Ellie,’ Sam replied, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Would you like to hear more tales from the Red Book?’

’More tales?’ she said, puzzled. ‘I thought we’d heard all there was to hear... have you written more, Dad, on those blank pages Mr Frodo left for you?’

’No, Ellie,’ Sam said, ‘at least, not any more than you’ve already seen. But Ruby was doing some clearing out in the study the other day and ran acrost some papers fallen behind some books. You know how Mr Frodo would just lay a sheaf of papers on top of the books on a shelf when unexpected visitors came...’

’Yes,’ Ellie laughed. ‘You told me how it used to drive Rose-mum to distraction, when he’d lose a page and ask her if she’d moved it when she was dusting!’ Sobering, she wiped away a tear at the thought of her mother, gone now, though it hardly seemed possible.

’Well, evidently he wrote these in the Spring before he went away, just before he had his bad spell in March, and so when he misplaced them, he didn’t even miss them, later,’ Sam said soberly. ‘At least, that is what I think happened.’

’What papers, Dad?’ Fastred said, drawing on his pipe.

’Elfstan,’ Sam said to the tallest lad, two years short of coming of age!— _how quickly they grew up,_ he thought. ‘You go get that package you took off the pack-pony when you unloaded him for me, and bring it here.’

’Yes, Grandad,’ Elfstan answered, disappearing out of the parlour, going to the guest room and finding the wanted item in the baggage laid neatly in the corner. It was large and bulky, wrapped in oiled cloth and tied about with twine. Elanor obligingly supplied her scissors, and soon the curious children were helping Samwise unwrap the treasure from its layers of oiled cloth and thin paper wrappings.

’The Red Book!’ Elanor breathed when the object came to light. ‘Dad, you brought it from Bag End? You risked it, in this weather, taking it here and back again?’

’Not back again, Ellie,’ Sam said calmly. ‘It’s here to stay. I want you to keep it for me.’

Ellie sat in shock, while Fastred gave his father-in-love a sharp glance, nodding at what he read in the creases of the old face.

’I suppose it is a boon for the grandchildren to hear the stories,’ Ellie said. ‘But the book is so big, you’ll have to make it an awfully long visit, Dad!’

’I’ll stay as long as need be,’ Sam said with a smile. ‘As long as need be,’ he repeated softly, caressing the fine leather of the binding, then he opened the book up. ‘Come here, Ellie, look at this!’

Putting down her mending, she got up from her chair and came over. Carefully glued in after the last pages written by Mr Frodo, more pages had been added. She saw, written in Frodo’s firm flowing script:

~~The Greening of the Shire~~  
~~What Happened after the Scouring of the Shire~~  
~~An Account of the Shire-folk after the War of the Ring~~  
~~The Healing of the Shire~~

...all crossed out, followed by what Mr Frodo might have intended for the title after all:

_A Small and Passing Thing_

’How curious!’ Elanor exclaimed. ‘It sounds... familiar somehow, as if I’d heard it before.’

’What’s it about, Grandad?’ Ten-year-old Frodo-lad piped up. ‘Can we hear the story?’

A chorus of eager agreement met this statement, and Elanor pretended to sigh in exasperation. She put her hands on her hips and said, ‘You know I’ll never get them off to bed, now, unless you read the story...’

’Well, then,’ Sam said with equanimity. ‘I suppose we had better get started...’


	2. Every Ruffian's Worst Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Mistress Lobelia transform from a nuisance to be avoided to a hero of the Shire?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story overlaps "The Rebel", there will be some material in common in early chapters.

The day that the ruffians hauled Lobelia Sackville-Baggins off to the Lockholes is a day that will live long in infamy. In disreputable public houses, deep in the shadowy corners where Men speak in whispers and bags of coins change hands under the table, her name is whispered even now, and Men shudder and fall silent. 

You would not think a dozen ruffians would be needed to escort an elderly—nay, ancient!—hobbit matron from Hobbiton to Michel Delving in fine autumnal weather, but in truth, the dozen were nearly not enough. 

‘Lo, she’s a tough old bird,’ one ruffian whispered to another as they traipsed along in the dust, Mistress Lobelia walking briskly, swinging her umbrella, muttering threats and imprecations. 

She might be old, but she was not deaf. Indeed, she possessed hearing of unusual sharpness and clarity. 

‘Young MAN!’ she screeched, and the ruffians fought the impulse to cover their ears. ‘Young MAN! Show more RESPECT towards your ELDERS!’ She went back to muttering, saying indignantly, ‘Old bird, indeed! HAH!’ 

They stopped often along the way, to allow Mistress Lobelia to take refreshment, or take care of, er, necessities. If not for the sheepish Men following her with whips and clubs dangling from their hands, the old hobbit might have been on a rest-day stroll. When they stopped overnight at the Shirriff’s house in Waymeet, the chief Shirriff himself gave up his bed, with more bowing and scraping than he ever showed the ruffians. However, no ruffian dared comment on the fact. 

At the Lockholes, the scribe taking the names of arriving prisoners looked up. ‘What’s this?’ he asked boredly. 

‘SHOW some RESPECT, young MAN!’ Lobelia said in piercing tones. 

‘New prisoner,’ the head of the ruffian escort replied wearily. He was thankful to be turning his charge over to others, to go back to the mundane tasks of bullying the hobbits of Bywater and Hobbiton. 

‘Name?’ the scribe said, only to have the very sharp end of an irate hobbit matron’s umbrella poked painfully into his chest. 

‘Were you addressing ME, you SCOUNDREL?’ Lobelia shrieked. ‘Is THAT any way to address your BETTERS?’ 

‘No ma’am,’ the scribe said hastily. ‘If you please, ma’am,’ he said, fearing she might spit him on her improvised sword, ‘What is your name?’ 

‘If you had any brains at all, which I rather doubt,’ she said scathingly, withdrawing her umbrella and straightening to her full diminutive height, ‘you’d know who I am.’ 

‘For the record, ma’am,’ he said, but did not question further, simply began to write on the next numbered line, “Lobelia Sackville-Ba...“ 

‘Abominable!’ she frothed. ‘Your handwriting is absolutely appalling! Wherever did you learn your craft? You have the temerity to call yourself a scribe?’ 

So quickly that he didn’t quite know how it all happened, she snatched the quill from him, dipped it in the ink, and wrote with a flourish, in beautiful copperplate, “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins”. Her large, handsome script took up four of the numbered lines, but looking into the stern face, the scribe decided it was not worth mentioning as she threw down the quill and stared him down. 

‘You’re Number ninety-seven,’ he said in a placating voice, but it wasn’t placating enough. The umbrella came up menacingly. 

‘WHAT did you say?’ she hissed. 

‘That—that’s what they’ll call you, here, Number ninety-seven,’ he stammered. ‘That’s your number.’ 

‘They will call me “Mistress Sackville-Baggins”, or “Mistress Lobelia”, or simply “Mistress” if they know what’s good for them,’ she snapped. 

‘Yes’m,’ the scribe said meekly, eyes on the umbrella. He wondered why none of the other ruffians had tried to take the umbrella away from the old biddy, and why they were allowing her to menace him with the sharp tip. 

‘Very well!’ Mistress Lobelia said imperiously, turning to the chief of the ruffians here in the Lockholes. She knew he was the chief because of the armband he wore, a convenience adopted by the ruffians to let the halflings know which ruffians were more in charge than others. ‘Let us proceed! It is nearly teatime, and I would like to refresh myself before taking tea!’ 

‘Yes, Mistress,’ the chief said, eyeing the umbrella. ‘Right this way.’ He gestured towards the open doorway. As they proceeded, he made a grab for the umbrella, but Lobelia was faster. _Whack!_ the umbrella struck sharply against a tender part of the ruffian’s anatomy, and he yelped in pain. 

‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ Lobelia said sternly. When the ruffian was stupid enough to try the trick again, there was another whack with its accompanying yelp, and a scolding in piercing tones in the bargain. 

Desperate, the ruffian grabbed at Lobelia’s arm, intending to wrestle the dratted weapon from the irate elderly hobbit, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. ‘Take your hands off me, you thieving scoundrel!’ He dropped her arm to place his hands over his ears, moving on instinct alone, and the umbrella whacked him again. He yelped. 

‘You dare to try to touch me again, I’ll serve you a double portion!’ Lobelia shrieked. They had turned the corner and were walking down the main corridor, past the first few empty cells. Lobelia peered into each one, dissatisfied at having nothing to comment on. Coming to the first occupied cell, she froze. ‘What’s this?’ she said, her voice shaking in outrage. ‘Hobbits sleeping on the floor, like dogs?’ 

A hobbit was curled on the stone floor without even a blanket for warmth. Lobelia had a flash of memory—thus had Otho’s hunting dogs curled before the hearth, when he was still courting her, before the wedding. After the wedding, she’d banished the dogs to the stables where they belonged. 

‘You may have your own room, all to yourself, Mistress, and we’ll even bring a bed in for you,’ the ruffian said in an appeasing tone. 

‘A bed!’ Lobelia shrieked. The guard jumped in spite of himself, but the hobbit in the cell continued to lie motionless, which was worrisome. ‘A bed! Why not a bed for that lad in there?’ 

‘He’s rebel scum, Mistress,’ the ruffian said apologetically. ‘He’s being punished for being a law-breaker. Now come along, we’ll see what we can do to make you comfortable—‘ _Whack!_ The ruffian yelped again, wondering if perhaps there might be a better job somewhere else in this land. The here-to-fore easy life of a guard at the Lockholes was paling on him. 

‘Unhand me, you... you... what was that you called him?’ Lobelia said in tones that could have shattered glass. 

‘Scum, Mistress?’ the ruffian said, trying not to sound thoroughly cowed. 

‘You SCUM!’ Lobelia shrieked. ‘A satisfying word,’ she muttered to herself, then raised her voice again, like fingernails against a smooth surface, setting teeth on edge. ‘If you touch me again, so help me, I’ll put your eyes out with the point of this umbrella. I had it made specially sharp to drive away stray dogs, I’ll have you know...’ 

She planted the sharp tip of the umbrella in the ruffian’s midsection and pushed him back, then hobbled into the small, dark, bleak cell. She bent over the still figure, reaching out a clawlike hand to touch the skin, checking for life. The flesh was not cold with the chill of death, as she’d feared, but rather hot to the touch; he was fevered. 

She creaked to the ground and took his head into her lap. This might have been her own precious Lotho, a few years back. This lad was a bit younger, perhaps a score of years. He showed no sign of recognising her presence, lying with eyes half open, unblinking, unmoving. If not for the slight rise and fall of the chest, she’d have thought him gone, the fever heat only a residue of life. ‘O lad,’ she crooned. ‘What have those despicable ruffians done to you, I’d like to know?’ 

She felt the feverish hobbit’s body jerk as she raised her voice again. ‘I want WATER, do you hear me, you imbecile, a CLEAN bucketful of CLEAN fresh water, mind, and I want it NOW. And CLEAN cloths, if you know what such a thing is, and a loaf of BREAD.’ Immediately her tone changed to softness and gentleness as she stroked the burning forehead. ‘It’s all right, lad, you’re safe now.’ 

‘Will there be anything else, Mistress?’ the ruffian quavered. 

‘That’ll do for starters,’ she snapped. ‘Some warm milk would not go amiss.’ 

‘Warm... milk,’ the ruffian stuttered. 

‘And a proper cup of tea. A few eggs, lightly scrambled, and…’ Looking up to see the ruffian creeping away, her voice rose again to a shriek. ‘Young MAN! YOUNG MAN! I haven’t FINISHED with you YET!’ Her hand never paused in its caresses while her voice subsided into a grumble. 

She surveyed the hobbit she cradled more carefully. He was dirty—filthy, rather, and he stank, but she shouldn’t expect lilies and rosewater, now, should she? She sniffed at her own fastidiousness. Young Lobelia hadn’t been one afraid to get her hands dirty, though she hadn’t had to do so in quite awhile. He needed a bath, she thought, but he wasn’t going to get one, not in this chilly place. Ideally, there should be a roaring fire on the hearth, a large copper tub standing nearby, filled with steaming water, soft towels at the ready, pleasantly-scented soap... She sniffed again. She’d make do. 

Boots sounded in the corridor and she took a deep breath, ready to launch into another tirade, but the ruffian who stopped in the doorway, staring at the sight of the old crony cradling the young rebel, was not the one she’d sent to fetch and carry for her. He had a bucket, indeed, but when he set it down she saw a swirl of oil on top of the liquid, and he carried a whip in his other hand. 

‘What’s this?’ he asked, his eyebrows going up. 

‘I might ask you the same question!’ she snapped. 

‘Why have you left your assigned cell?’ he said menacingly. ‘Which cell is yours?’ he added. He’d enjoy administering her punishment, beating the hobbits in the cells to either side of hers. It made the little rats feel so bad, knowing they’d caused such pain to others of their kind. 

‘CELL?’ she shrieked, but feeling the hobbit in her lap twitch, she lowered her voice to a bad-tempered hiss. ‘I have no CELL, young MAN, and have no intention of being CONFINED to one. My SON happens to be your BOSS, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be properly RESPECTFUL to your BETTERS!’ 

He stepped back, uncertain, lowering the whip. ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he stammered. 

‘Now, what is that... swill? I ordered clean, fresh water!’ Lobelia said testily. 

‘It’s soup, Mistress, for the prisoners’ supper.’ 

‘There’s a prisoner here,’ she said as he picked up the bucket and started to turn away. ‘Why doesn’t he get any soup?’ 

He pointed to the battered man-sized cup lying on the floor beside what looked to be a discarded crust of bread, hard and stale. ‘He ain’t et his breakfast, ma’am. He don’t need no supper.’ 

‘Fill up that CUP, young MAN, and no more nonsense!’ she said, menace in her tone. 

He dipped the cup into the bucket and handed it to her with a bow. Seconds later, he was wearing the soup upon his face, for Lobelia had flung the cup at him as soon as she’d got a closer look at the stuff. 

‘You call this SOUP?’ she raged. ‘Why, it’s not even WARM!’ As he stood blinking at her, she ordered, ‘You take that SWILL back wherever it was you got it and make it properly HOT, at the very LEAST!’ 

‘Yes’m,’ the ruffian said, picking up the bucket and hastily exiting the room, his ears ringing from her strident tones. 

Two ruffians appeared some time later, one bearing a steaming bucket, and the other a bucket of clear, cold water and some reasonably clean rags. There was no loaf of bread, but she’d take up that matter a little later. At the moment, she thought she had enough to work with. The ruffian with the soup bucket dipped the prisoner’s cup into the hot liquid, then pulled another cup from a bag and dipped that, setting both on the floor before Lobelia. 

‘You could have a cell of your own with a little table and chair, Mistress,’ he said. ‘No need to sit on the cold floor.’ 

‘I’m fine!’ she snapped. He nodded, then took another piece of bread from his pocket and balanced it atop the second cup. ‘Your dinner, ma’am,’ he said politely. 

‘Thank you,’ she grumbled. Her mother had raised her to mind her manners, after all. 


	3. Mistress Lobelia Takes the Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobelia settles in at the Lockholes

’If that will be all, ma’am?’ the ruffian chief said, edging backwards. He’d seen how quick the old biddy could grab that umbrella, and he preferred to be out of reach. 

’Not quite,’ Lobelia said regally. ‘That bed you have for me, has it a blanket?’ 

‘Yes’m, of course it does,’ the ruffian chief said. The hobbit was, after all, the Boss’s mother. Besides, the chief had a mother of his own, back home. He’d see to it that Mistress Lobelia was as comfortable as his restrictions allowed. Perhaps she was tiring of sitting on the cold floor, cradling that filthy, stinking rebel, and would retire to her own cell. 

Sharkey’s orders or no Sharkey’s orders, the rebels ought to quietly disappear in the night, and things would settle down again. Even with half the prisoners suddenly deceased, there would be plenty of live hobbits—if you could call it living—in the Lockholes for the Chief to gloat over. The old biddy was probably senile, anyhow, and wouldn’t even miss the hobbit she was holding at the moment. 

’I’m cold,’ Lobelia said pleasantly. ‘Bring my blanket to me here.’ 

’Wouldn’t you rather seek your bed, Mistress, where your blanket awaits you?’ the rebel chief said as ingratiatingly as he could. It was a mistake, he realised as his fingers instinctively sought to plug his ears. 

’NO I WOULD NOT rather seek my BED, young MAN!’ she shrieked. 

Before she could continue, he held out his hands. ‘Begging your pardon, Mistress,’ he said quckly. ‘I’ll fetch it myself, in this instant.’ 

’You do that, young Man,’ she said, satisfied, and looked down at the prisoner in pointed dismissal. Cursing himself for a coward and a fool, the ruffian chief strode down the corridor to the room they’d prepared when she’d arrived, snatched the blanket from the bed, and returned with it. 

Mistress Lobelia accepted the blanket with a sniff, then told the Men they were free to go for the nonce. She’d call them when she needed them. Politeness seemed the prudent course, so they bowed respectfully and took their leave. 

The “soup” had cooled somewhat, but was still warm to the touch. Lobelia tried to break the crust of bread that had been on the floor, but it was too old and hard, and she ended up poking it into the soup in the cup, to soften while she turned her attention to the fresher piece. This one she was able to break into small chunks, which she soaked in the second cup of warm swill, after sipping it to bring the level down enough to fit the bread in. She shuddered at the taste, but it was warm, and it was liquid, and it had evidently had some nodding acquaintance with potatoes, perhaps even a touch of onion, so she’d make do. 

She got up and spread the blanket out over the sick hobbit, tucking it under him to protect his body from the chill of the stone floor. Next she dragged the bucket of water close; she’d want to be able to reach it easily. She piled the rags by the bucket, put the soup within reaching distance (even the rock-hard bread was beginning to soften), and sat down, easing her lap once again under the fevered hobbit’s head. 

Lobelia took up a cloth and dipped it into the bucket of cool, fresh water, then began to gently wash the dirty face, a mixture of caked-on mud, dust, and dried blood. Her charge stirred, trying to lift a hand, but the blanket held him down. He began to struggle feebly, his eyes blinking in an attempt to see his surroundings. He was wasting precious energy, Lobelia decided. 

‘There, there, it’s all right,’ she soothed. ‘No,’ she added firmly, ‘don’t throw the blanket off.’ 

She stroked his hair back from his forehead and muttered, ‘I ought to have a shears, you’re shaggier than a sheep in the springtime. Now we’ve washed the dirt away, let us have a look at your face.’ 

He shook his head weakly, trying again to push the blanket away, to push her away, she thought, but she soothed his forehead again with her fingers and murmured reassurance. 

‘There lad,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’ She soaked the cloth again, squeezed some of the water out, went over his features one more time, then took the cloth away to peer at his face in the shadowy light from the torches in the corridor. Were her eyes tricking her? She gasped. 

‘A Took!’ she whispered, ‘but how do you come to be here? I thought they were hanging any Took they could get their hands on...’ Lobelia remembered hearing the Men sitting around at Bag End, joking with Lotho. Uncouth louts, she’d thought at the time, and their jokes were not funny at all. “The only good Took is a dead one,” was one of the things they’d said. She’d used a similar phrase herself, talking about garden snails. She did not find it at all amusing, applied to hobbits. 

She looked more closely, then decided, ‘No, not all Took. There’s some Bolger in that face. Ah, lad, I can guess who you are. ‘Tis a wonder to find you alive at all.’ How had Fredegar Bolger escaped hanging? Of course, she’d heard it put about that he’d died in a raid, taken a ruffian arrow and been buried in a shallow, unmarked grave. She’d called on his parents to give them her condolences and to say “I told you so”, but the grand house was empty, the Bolgers gone away, and none could say where. 

The soup was cooling, and he seemed awake enough to swallow some of it, so she lifted his head, murmuring, ‘Here now, it’s not proper bread at all, and it is only soaked in that travesty they call “soup”, but it’s food of a sort, and you look as if you haven’t eaten in days. Come lad, take a little sustenance.’ 

She picked up some of the bread from the cup, warm and crumbly now, soft enough to swallow without chewing. Delicately, she eased her fingers past his lips, placing the food in his mouth, and was heartened to see him swallow. ‘There’s the lad,’ she encouraged. ‘Take some more, now.’ 

She continued to pick up tiny amounts of soaked bread and slip them into his mouth, much as she had fed her precious Lotho when he’d been a small lad, smitten with illness, too weak to feed himself, and unhobbitly disinterested in eating. They’d played the baby bird game, she recalled with a smile. 

Lobelia slowly fed him all the bread and soup from both cups, though by the time they finished that meal it was no longer warm. Still, it was an accomplishment to have gotten the food into him, and a hopeful sign that he was not moribund. She laid him down with a pat on his shoulder. ‘There now, lad, you sleep a bit. I’m going to see who else is in this forsaken hole.’ 

She tucked the blanket securely around him and rose, picking up her umbrella. The cold ground beneath her had stiffened her old bones, and she tottered out into the corridor. 

Seeing a ruffian, she said, ‘YOU, there, young Man...’ 

He had not heard the news, and tried to seize her by the arm. She soon set him right. 

*** 

Lobelia walked the length of the corridor, peering into each cell in turn, seeing hobbit forms lying or crouching in the shadows. None answered her when she spoke to them. Reaching the end, she stared down into the blackness that hid the next level. A terrible stench arose from the hole, and she turned away. No torches were lit down there, evidently nothing alive was housed there. At least, she hoped that was the case. 

She retraced her steps to the entrance of the Lockholes. Seeing the ruffian chief talking to the scribe, she beckoned. 

’Yes, Mistress Lobelia?’ he asked politely. 

’What’s the name of that lad I was sitting with? I didn’t know him,’ she said. She was curious; did they know they had Fredegar Bolger amongst their prisoners? It might explain why his condition was among the worst of the hobbits there, though several were nearly as bad off. She thought she could tell which were the rebels by the terrible condition they were in, the bruises telling of beatings, the terrible thinness of their bodies, the hopelessness in their eyes by the light of the flickering torchlight. 

The chief beckoned to the scribe, who advanced with one wary eye on the umbrella. ‘His name is Sandy Riverbottom,’ he said, checking his sheet to be sure. He scratched his head. ‘That's odd, I never noticed that before: he’s the only Riverbottom there...’ 

‘Ah, most of the Riverbottoms live up away in North Farthing,’ Lobelia said smoothly. ‘He’s far from his kin.’ 

’Wonder how he got mixed in with a bunch of rebel...,’ the chief said. He’d been about to say “pigs”, but considering the company, ended with “hobbits”, instead. 

‘That I cannot tell you,’ Lobelia snapped, her temper growing short again. She’d known very well what was on his tongue; she could read him like a book. Both ruffians stiffened. ‘What I CAN tell you,’ she continued tightly, ‘is that the conditions here are disGRACEful. Why do none of the prisoners have blankets?’ 

’We weren’t issued any...’ the chief began. 

‘HAH!’ Lobelia shouted, and raised her umbrella threateningly. ‘I know for a FACT that you have STOREHOLES full of blankets here in Michel Delving, that you’ve “gathered for fair distribution”—‘ and here her voice dripped with irony, ‘—from the hobbits in the surrounding area. Well, I’d suggest you start distributing them, here and now, if you know what’s GOOD for you.’ 

‘Yes’m,’ the ruffian chief said quickly. His head was beginning to pound, it was nearly time to knock off for the day, and what he really wanted was some beer and quiet. He definitely did not want Mistress Lobelia to start shrieking again. He glared at the scribe. ‘See to it!’ he snapped. 

‘But—‘ the scribe protested. 

‘Now!’ the ruffian chief and Lobelia shouted in unison. Outmatched, the scribe turned tail and fled to carry out his orders. 

’Will there be anything else, ma’am?’ the chief said, hoping there wasn’t. ‘Shall I show you to your room, now?’ 

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Lobelia said. ‘All I want is some dinner, and...’ 

‘Dinner?’ the chief said, puzzled. ‘But we served you your dinner, with that rebel, er, hobbit.’ 

‘That was _his_ dinner,’ Lobelia said, her eye glinting dangerously. ‘Now I want _mine_.' 

It wasn’t worth the argument. ‘Yes, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Wait here a moment and I’ll fetch it.’ 

‘Make sure it’s HOT!’ she shrieked after him. 


	4. A Little Fall of Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescuing the prisoners from the Lockholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some text taken from "The Grey Havens" in _The Lord of the Rings_ by J.R.R. Tolkien.

The day after the Battle of Bywater, Frodo Baggins rode to Michel Delving and released the prisoners from the Lockholes. 

Samwise rode by his side, and Merry and Pippin were with him, grim in their bright armour. They had stopped at the grave of the nineteen hobbits who’d given their lives in defence of the Shire, stood with heads bowed for a silent moment, then mounted their ponies. 

There was quite a traffic of hobbits on the road to Michel Delving, they found, a few driving waggons, even one or two coaches in the silent throng, but most on foot, all going in the same direction. They were the fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, sons and daughters, cousins and other relations, even neighbors of hobbits who’d been taken away by the ruffians. Now that the pall of fear had been lifted from the Shire, they went in search of their lost loved ones. 

’Which storeholes, do you think?’ Frodo said over his shoulder to Merry. ‘Will we have to search each one in turn?’ 

’I don’t know,’ Merry said. ‘We’ll bake that bread when it’s risen. This might all be moot, anyhow; the hobbits of Michel Delving may have already freed the prisoners, with the ruffians all gone away.’ 

When they reached Michel Delving, the streets were empty, the houses and holes deserted. There were no smiling, cheering hobbits waving aprons and dishcloths and handkerchiefs to greet the conquering heroes. There was no one at all, and the Travellers wondered. 

‘Let us go to the Storeholes,’ Frodo said, after they had watered their ponies at the trough in the square. ‘Perhaps they are all there, ministering to the prisoners and celebrating their release.’ 

‘That would be a sensible guess,’ Sam said approvingly. Undoubtedly Mr Frodo had the right of it. 

They found the townsfolk at the Storeholes as Frodo had predicted. There was no need to guess which of the great storeholes had been converted to Lockholes. A great crowd of hobbits stood silently around the entrance to one of the tunnels, outside of which several ramshackle shacks and buildings had been constructed. 

The crowd parted to let the Travellers through, but there were no cheers, no greetings. Merry bit off an exclamation at the sight of tear-streaked faces raised to look at them. 

As the Travellers swung down from their ponies, Frodo looked about the crowd, dread in his heart. Had the ruffians slaughtered all the prisoners before they’d left to join the battle at Bywater? ‘What has happened?’ he said. 

‘It’s a spell,’ one old gaffer answered quietly. ‘That wizard said that any who dared enter would be turned to toads or lizards—‘ 

‘—or snakes!’ someone else put in bleakly. There were several sobs from the crowd. 

‘They’re all in there,’ a hobbit in shepherd's clothing said. ‘But we’ve no way to get ‘em out. We’ve been standing here, hoping they might come out on their own.’ 

’A spell!’ Pippin bit off in disgust. ‘How can you believe--?’ 

’Pip,’ Merry said quietly, putting a restraining hand on his arm. ‘It was Saruman. Have you forgotten?’ 

Frodo started forward, but Merry sprang to intercept him. ‘No, cousin,’ he said, ‘Let me go. They might have laid a trap within.’ 

Frodo protested, but Merry insisted and Sam took his part. ‘Wait here, Mr Frodo,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what’s in there.’ 

Merry drew his sword as he approached the entrance, the blade gleaming dully in the dim light of the cloudy day. He walked slowly, stopping a few steps in to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he could see a bit, he proceeded, sword at the ready, feeling with his toes, finding nothing under his feet but the smooth surface delved out of the rock. 

He walked until he came to an end, a blank wall, and peering about him by the dim light coming from the entrance, he saw that the tunnel made a sharp turn into darkness. ‘Hullo!’ he called. He was answered only by echoes. 

Retracing his steps, he sheathed his sword and emerged into daylight. ‘It’s as dark as Moria in there,’ he reported to Frodo, ‘and there’s an awful stench, like nothing I’ve ever smelled before.’ 

Frodo’s face was terrible as he turned to shout to the crowd. ‘Fetch lamps, lanterns, candles! Bring anything that will make light!’ Part of the crowd melted away as hobbits ran to do his bidding. 

They returned, lit the lamps and torches they carried, but still hesitated. None would approach closer than ten paces from the entrance. 

Suddenly Frodo gave an exclamation, feeling inside his coat, pulling out the phial of Galadriel. Holding it high he turned about to address the crowd. ‘This is Elvish magic!’ he shouted. ‘Stronger than any spell the wizard might have cast upon you! Within this glass is set the light of the star of Earendil, and no shadow of remaining evil will stand before its gleam!’ 

‘Good thinking, cousin!’ Merry muttered for Frodo’s ears alone. ‘Lead the way, go before them and drive the fear away.’ 

Frodo nodded, and turned towards the entrance. The phial began to glow as he entered the darkened tunnel and the townsfolk began to follow, fearful, hesitant, but growing in confidence as the light from the phial grew brighter. 

’Come on!’ the proprietor of the finest inn in Michel Delving said to his sons, clutching his lantern tighter. He hastened a bit, caught up to the Travellers, his sons on his heels. 

The stench grew worse as they turned the corner, peering into the inky blackness beyond the phial’s light. ‘Keep going, Frodo,’ Merry said, his voice raised for the benefit of those who followed. ‘Walk all the way to the end, make sure you drive out every vestige of Saruman’s spell.’ 

Frodo nodded, walking a little ahead of the townsfolk. The other Travellers flanked him, Merry and Pippin to either side, Sam just behind, all tense, expectant, with their hands on their swords, ready to defend him should any evil thing be roused by the light. 

The innkeeper and his sons shone their lantern in each right-hand cell they passed, a farmer and his sons checking the left-hand cells. The first few were unoccupied, but at last, they came to a cell where the floor was not smooth and clear, but marred by a pile of rags—at least it looked like a pile of rags. Closer inspection revealed an emaciated hobbit huddled under a blanket. 

With an oath, the innkeeper thrust the lantern into his eldest son’s hands, dropping to his knees beside the still form, picking up the stinking body and gathering him close. He could feel fever heat, and the flutter of a pulse against his searching fingers. ‘This one’s alive!’ he said in wonder and in horror. 

Two Shirriffs had been right behind the innkeeper and his sons, and now one asked, ‘Who is it?’ 

’A Took, I think,’ the other answered. He bent to address the blanket-wrapped hobbit, who was blinking at them in sleepy astonishment. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘Number Seventy-four,’ came the answer. They stood in shock, and in the stunned silence they could hear other hobbit voices moving down the corridor, calling out to one another in consternation and horror. 

‘Number Seventy—‘ one of the innkeeper’s sons muttered, breaking off in a curse. His father would have reprimanded him, save for the fact that he felt like letting off a string of curses himself. 

‘No, what is your _name_?’ the second Shirriff repeated, but the dazed hobbit seemed unable to answer the question or perhaps even to comprehend it. He simply stared into the glow of the lantern, not seeming to see the hobbits surrounding him. The second Shirriff, resisting the urge to be sick, turned to the innkeeper’s eldest son. ‘Go get one of the Tooks,’ he said. ‘They ought to know their own.’ Under his breath, he muttered, ‘Though how a Took escaped hanging is beyond me...’ 

In the cell across the way, and other cells, similar conversations were taking place, while the Travellers reached the end of the tunnel. Frodo stared down into the stinking darkness. Merry pulled at his arm. 

'Come away, cousin,' he said. 'We'll take lanterns down there, but...' he searched for an excuse to take Frodo away from the pit and the terrible secrets it might hold. A Shirriff jogged up to them. 

'We've found Mayor Will,' he panted. 'Alive and fairly well, not as badly treated as some. He's asking for you, Frodo.' 

Frodo shook himself, coming out of his reverie. 'Mayor Will?' he asked. 'Merry, go and fetch his wife; I saw her in the crowd outside. Pip, we'll need more lanterns and hobbits with strong stomachs. We've got to know if there are any prisoners down there.' 

Pippin regarded the pit grimly. 'I'll see to it myself,' he promised, spinning to jog back to the entrance. Merry was glad to lead Frodo away, following the Shirriff to the Mayor's cell. 

In the cell next to Prisoner Number Seventy-four's, the shepherd and his assistants had lifted the occupant to a sitting position, while the shepherd held his own water flask to the hobbit’s mouth. 

’Ah, that’s good,’ the hobbit said, weakly raising his arm to wipe his mouth. ‘What’re you doing here?’ 

’We’ve taken back the Shire,’ the shepherd said, cutting to the heart of the news. ‘The ruffians are gone, dead, some of them, the rest on the run.’ He held up the flask again. ‘More?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ the hobbit answered, ‘well, maybe in a minute or so. Let’s not drown my innards after the long drought.’ He tried ineffectually to rise and the shepherd helped him to his feet. 

’Are you sure you ought to get up?’ he asked. ‘We can carry you out of here.’ 

’The last time that wizard came to gloat over us I made myself a solemn vow that I’d walk out of here on my own two feet,’ came the answer. 

’What’s your name?’ the shepherd said. 

’Rocky,’ the hobbit answered. ‘Rocky Sandbank.’ He smiled faintly, the rituals of culture and custom coming back to him. ‘At your service.’ 

’At yours, and your family’s service,’ the shepherd said automatically. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ 

He started to help Rocky from the cell but then Rocky shook his hand off, stumbling to the next cell, calling out, ‘Freddy! Mr Freddy, can you hear me?’ 

The innkeeper’s burden stirred and muttered. ‘Rocky, no,’ he said. He closed his eyes and stiffened in the innkeeper’s arms. 

‘You know him?’ the innkeeper demanded. ‘Who is he?’ 

‘Fredegar Bolger, of course, of Budge Hall!’ Rocky said indignantly. He knelt by Freddy’s side. ‘Mr Freddy?’ he whispered. 

The first Shirriff went out into the corridor and seeing Frodo emerging from the Mayor's cell, raised his voice to shout. ‘Frodo! In here! It’s Fatty Bolger!’ 

The innkeeper could not feel Fredegar Bolger breathing. ‘Lad?’ he whispered. ‘Lad?’ There, a shuddering breath. He relaxed subtly, but still worried that the hobbit would die in his arms. There was a stir in the doorway, and Frodo entered, thrusting the phial of Galadriel into his shirt again. As he entered, he called behind him, ‘Bring litters!’ 

He hesitated, looking at his cousin in the lamplight, and fell to his knees. He touched Fredegar’s shoulder, gripped it firmly though it felt light and insubstantial under his fingers. ‘Fatty?’ he said anxiously. 

Fatty stirred, turning his face to one side, then the other. ‘Number Seventy-four,’ he moaned. He opened his eyes and seemed to see Frodo. His eyes widened in fear. ‘They’ll beat you,’ he whispered. ‘Please...’ 

‘No more beatings, Mr Freddy,’ Rocky said reassuringly. ‘The ruffians are gone, chased away. There is a Shire again.’ 

Frodo looked up at the other hobbits who’d gathered round. ‘Let’s get him out of this place,’ he said. 

A litter was brought and they eased Fredegar onto it. They lifted him and carried into the corridor, down to and around the corner, and out the door into daylight. It had begun to drizzle, and Frodo helped Rocky along though he kept hold of Fredegar’s hand with his free one. He saw his cousin close his eyes when the droplets touched his face, only to open them again quickly. 

As they walked, Rocky told Frodo briefly about their arrest, the march to the Lockholes, the sufferings they’d endured since, ending, ‘...we owe everything to Mistress Lobelia, she kept us going, badgered the guards into doubling our rations, poor as they were, made them stop beating us. They were _afraid_ of her, if you can only imagine...’ 

Frodo felt like laughing and crying at the same time. ‘I can imagine,’ he chuckled, but there were tears in his voice. 

Pippin came up to them, saying, ‘They threw refuse down that pit, but no hobbits as far as we can tell at this early date.' His nose wrinkled with distaste. 'They're shoveling it out now, bless them!' He looked around quickly, scanning the faces of the emerging prisoners. Not finding the one he sought, he looked back to Frodo, saying urgently, 'I'm told you’ve found Fatty, where is he?’ 

Frodo motioned to the bearers to lay down the litter. Fredegar’s eyes were closed again, and Frodo looked at him anxiously until he saw the chest rise and fall. 

‘Here,’ Frodo said quietly, his hand tightening on Fredegar’s. ‘He’s right here, Pippin.’ 

Pippin’s face reflected his own shock and grief. ‘Fatty,’ Pippin breathed, going to his knees beside the litter. ‘You would have done better to come with us after all, poor old Fredegar.’ 

Tears came to the cousins’ eyes as Fredegar opened an eye and tried gallantly to smile. ‘Who’s this young giant with the loud voice?’ he whispered. ‘Not little Pippin! What’s your size in hats now?’ 

Pippin reached to take Freddy’s other hand, moved beyond words, shifting his grip to Freddy's arm when he encountered Lobelia's bandages, but Frodo straightened, remembering that there were other hobbits in the Lockholes. 

‘Where _is_ Lobelia?’ he said. 

‘Lobelia?’ Pippin asked in astonishment. 

Rocky shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her in a few days,’ he said. ‘The one they called Sharkey came, and after that she disappeared.’ 

Frodo saw Fredegar shiver and squeeze his eyes shut, and he patted his cousin's shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Fatty,’ he said. ‘Sharkey’s gone.’ 

‘What if he comes back?’ Fredegar asked shakily. 

‘He’s dead,’ Frodo said firmly. 

More hobbits were being helped out into the drizzle, and Fatty’s raiders gathered round him, laughing and crying at once. Little Robin was laid down beside him, and he pulled his hand free of Frodo's gentle grasp to reach out a trembling hand. ‘Robin?’ he said. 

‘Mr Freddy,’ the tween whispered back. ‘We came through.’ 

‘That we did, lad,’ Freddy said. 

Frodo was glad to hear him sounding stronger. He gave his cousin’s shoulder a final squeeze, saying, ‘I’ll be right back,’ and rose, shouting orders. ‘Find Lobelia, she’s got to be here somewhere!’ 

Merry came up then, leaning over the litter to say, ‘Hullo, Fatty, I’d hardly have known you.’ 

‘I could say the same, Merry,’ Fredegar murmured. 

‘I want healers!’ Frodo was shouting. ‘Fetch all there are in Michel Delving!’ 

‘Frodo,’ Merry broke in, ‘there’s a cell in there that’s had boards nailed over it. Of course there’s no hammer anywhere to be found, and a sword is a poor tool for prying nails...’ 

‘A boarded-up cell?’ Frodo said, then in the same breath he and Pippin said together, ‘Lobelia!’ Frodo disappeared into the Lockholes. 

Odovacar and Rosamunda Bolger made their way through the crowd, Odo saying anxiously, ‘They say my son’s been found?’ 

‘He’s here, Odo,’ Merry said with an eloquent gesture, and the Bolgers stopped still, shock and sorrow on their faces, before Rosamunda threw herself on Freddy, weeping, and Odovacar knelt down to embrace his wife and son. He rose again, tears on his face, and began to greet each of Freddy’s rebels in turn, and to hear bits and snatches of their story and how they’d been saved in the end by Lobelia Sackville-Baggins of all hobbits. 

Far down the stinking tunnel in a pitch-dark cell, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins stirred as she heard voices. It sounded like hobbit voices. Was she losing her wits at last? The voices were joined by the sound of banging. Suddenly a piece of wood splintered, letting in a gleam of lantern-light, causing the old hobbit to put her hands over her eyes. The light hurt after such a long time in darkness. 

’Who’s there?’ she quavered, then straightened defiantly. She sounded like an old ninny. ‘Who is it?’ she snapped, sounding more like herself. 

’Lobelia, we’ve come to get you out,’ said a voice she hadn’t heard in months. 

’Frodo? Frodo Baggins? You RASCAL, how did you come to be here?’ she said irascibly. 

He laughed. ‘It’s a long story, Lobelia,’ he replied. ‘We’ll have to drain quite a few pots of tea before we get to its end.’ There was a mutter of voices and then he said, ‘Can you move back, away from the door? We’re going to break it in.’ 

She scooted back against the far wall, clutching her umbrella. If this was some sort of ruffian trick, she’d be ready. ‘Go ahead!’ she called. 

She heard someone give a count, followed by hobbits' shouts, and splintering noises. Again, and again, and then the boards gave way and hobbits fell into her cell in an untidy pile. Lobelia had never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life. 

’What took you so long?’ she grumbled as Frodo helped her to her feet. 

He laughed in answer. ‘It is nice to see you, too,’ he said with a smile. 'Let us depart this place.’ 

’What about the others?’ Lobelia demanded. ‘Fatty, and the rest?’ 

’They’re already out,’ Frodo said. ‘You were the difficult one to rescue—‘ she bristled, and he patted her arm, ‘—being boarded in, and all.’ 

’Ah,’ she said. 

Poor Lobelia, she looked very old and thin when they rescued her from the dark and narrow cell. She insisted on hobbling out on her own feet, leaning on Frodo’s arm, but still clutching her umbrella. When the prisoners saw her emerge from the entrance, they raised a great cheer, and the rescuers and townsfolk and anxious relatives who’d journeyed to Michel Delving after hearing of the ruffians’ defeat gave her an ovation that was heard all over the town. 

She nodded uncertainly to right and left, trying to smile, but tears began to trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. One of the townsfolk stepped forward to offer a snowy handkerchief, and she took it as no more than her due. 

‘Stop,’ she said to Frodo, with all her old imperiousness, when they reached Fredegar’s litter, and so they did. ‘Hullo, there, Sandy,’ she said, ‘or is it safe to call you by your proper name, now?’ Her heart grieved at the sight of him; he looked worse by daylight than in the dim light of the flickering torches. 

‘It’s safe,’ Freddy answered her faintly, though he still looked dazed, as if he were not entirely sure where he was or what he was doing there. 

‘Lobelia, there are not enough words in all of Middle-earth to express my gratitude to you for saving our son and these others,’ Odovacar Bolger said gravely from his son’s side. ‘If you would do us the honour of coming back to Budgeford with us, until Bag End is habitable again... We’re living on the sufferance of our gardener, at the moment, in his cot, but he and his family have been gracious in their hospitality and generous towards the dispossessed, and I am sure they would welcome you as well.’ 

‘Why, thank you,’ Lobelia said, blinking in surprise. She could not remember the last invitation she’d received to visit someone since Bilbo’s infamous birthday debacle. She always imposed herself upon her relatives, not the other way around. 

‘Come, let’s carry Freddy to the coach,’ Odovacar said. ‘It’s a long drive home.’ 

‘I’d like a healer to see to him first,’ Frodo said. ‘I know how eager you are to take him away from this place, but...’ 

‘Then let us at least get these hobbits in out of the rain before they catch their deaths,’ Rosamunda said. 

‘No,’ Freddy protested, and his parents looked at him in surprise. 

Frodo understood. ‘You’ll be taking walks in the rain before you know it,’ he said gently. ‘And walks in the sun, and sitting down to a groaning table and eating to your heart’s content.’ 

‘One thing at a time,’ Freddy said, obviously overwhelmed. 

Frodo laughed. ‘One thing at a time,’ he agreed. 

Just then a healer approached, bowing to Frodo. ‘Sancho Chubb at your service,’ he said. ‘You asked for healers? My wife is here as well.’ 

’Good,’ Frodo said. ‘Some of the hobbits are in better condition than others, but I’d like them all checked over before any are sent home.' 

’We ought to get them out of the rain,’ Rosamunda Bolger said again, holding tightly to Fredegar’s unbandaged hand. He had closed his eyes again, seeming scarcely to breathe. 

’The inns are closed,’ the innkeeper said, ‘and the ruffians did a fair bit of damage as they closed them down...’ 

’The Town Hole is in fair order,’ a Shirriff said. ‘We can take them there for shelter.’ 

’Very well,’ Frodo said, ‘let us do just that.’ 


	5. Evil, Personified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman visits the Lockholes to gloat over his prisoners.

  
Taking her dinner, Lobelia returned to Fredegar Bolger’s side. He was sleeping peacefully, she was glad to see. It was probably the first time in weeks that he had a blanket and a full belly. She sipped her swill and chewed her crust while considering her next move. She’d have to keep a close watch on the ruffians, she decided. They were not at all trustworthy, to her thinking. 

Accordingly, she settled down just inside the doorway of Freddy’s cell and arranged herself comfortably, propped up against the wall with a clear view of the corridor. She’d see any ruffians coming in, especially since they apparently kept the torches burning at all times, day or night. 

She dozed, finally. 

Old hobbits are light sleepers, wakening easily at the smallest sound. In addition, they don’t seem to need much sleep at night, although the daytime naps might account for this. In any event, Lobelia was awakened by a soft footfall in the corridor outside. 

Lifting her head, she saw the ruffian chief stop outside the cell opposite, duck inside, and emerge with a small figure in his arms. He walked softly down the corridor, heading inwards. Lobelia walked more softly behind him, umbrella at the ready. He stopped at the hole leading down to the next level, and she realised he was going to drop the limp hobbit into it. 

’STOP!’ she shrieked, her voice echoing through the corridor. ‘IF you drop him, I’ll RUN you THROUGH!’ she continued, poking her umbrella into the tender part of his back, right about where one of his kidneys would be found. 

He had nearly dropped young Robin Smallfoot anyhow in his shock, but he managed to keep hold of the hobbit tween, just barely. 

’I will not even ASK what you think you are doing,’ Lobelia snarled, ‘for I have a very good idea. You were dumping a hobbit like refuse, when I can clearly see he still lives and breathes.’ 

The chief stood silently, still holding Robin, uncertain as to his course. 

’I won’t tell anyone what I just witnessed,’ Lobelia said, ‘if you take him right back to his cell. I’d imagine even Sharkey would take a dim view of his prisoners disappearing down a hole when he’d not got his full measure of gloating in.’ 

The chief shot her a startled glance. The old biddy didn’t miss a thing, he gathered. 

’That’s right,’ she said. ‘I know he keeps them here as pets, like dogs that he may come and kick whenever he likes. You have some ninety-seven hobbits here, I understand. He keeps count, you know. I’ve heard Him talk.’ 

The chief had no doubt that she had heard Sharkey talk about his captive hobbits. The Chief did come around on occasion, just as she said, visiting the creatures and taking pleasure in their wretchedness. 

’Let this be a warning to you,’ Lobelia said. Meeting her stare, the thought occurred to the chief ruffian, and not for the first time, that Sharkey might have sent Lotho’s mum to the Lockholes in order to spy on the Men there. He’d better watch his step. Noticing his hesitation, she snapped, ‘Put him back!’ 

The chief ruffian nodded, admitting defeat, and returned Robin to his cell, Lobelia hobbling along behind him, umbrella handy. 

Coming out of the cell again, he found Lobelia standing, umbrella at the ready. ‘Now how about those blankets?’ she snapped. 

’Coming right up,’ he answered, and went to keep his promise. 

*** 

The next morning, Lobelia bathed Fredegar’s hot face with more cool water, then decided to sponge his body for good measure. She pulled his shirt open and barely suppressed a gasp, seeing the festering wounds there from half-healed whip slashes. There was bruising, as well. He had evidently suffered more than one beating. The wounds would have to be cleaned or the infection would kill him. As gently as possible, she dabbed at the injuries, crooning softly whenever he winced at the touch. 

His right hand, too, was worrisome, the fingers twisted and bent in ways fingers ought not to be. She used some of the rags to wrap the hand gently, giving the poor distorted fingers support, to keep them from catching on the blanket and causing him further pain. Even her gentlest ministrations were not gentle enough, wringing from him a moan, and tears came to her eyes. 

She sniffed, and raised her head to see a ruffian in the doorway with a bucket. 

‘Tea,’ he said uncertainly. 

‘That had better be HOT,’ she retorted. 

‘Yes’m,’ he said meekly, advancing into the room to fill both cups. Steam rose reassuringly from the bucket and the cups, and she grimly nodded thanks. 

‘Here, lad,’ she said, holding one of the cups to Fredegar’s lips. ‘They call this “tea”. It’s hot, at least, so drink up.' She managed to get the whole cupful into him, and as he let his head fall back, he sighed. 

‘There’s a lad,’ Lobelia said. ‘They tell me you gave the name “Sandy”, so that is what I’ll call you.’ 

‘My name is Number seventy-four,’ he whispered. Her eyes widened with horror; they’d taken away the hobbits’ names? Even the made-up name Fredegar had assumed, they’d taken that away and given him a number to call himself? Abominable! 

‘Sandy,’ she said firmly. 

He reached weakly to grasp her arm. ‘They’ll beat you,’ he said desperately. ‘My name is Number seventy-four.’ His worry for her was pathetic, and shattering. He wasn’t afraid of the consequences for himself, but beside himself that she would come to harm, for calling him by name, a proper hobbit name at any event, and not by a ridiculous number. 

She snorted. ‘I’d like to see them try, the ninnies! Don’t you worry your fevered head about me, Sandy. You’d do better worrying about those louts of ruffians. Why, when I get through with them...’ She was completely and utterly disgusted with Sharkey and his Men, and she intended to give him a piece of her mind next time she saw him. Perhaps she’d give him a piece of her umbrella, as well. 

However, Sharkey seemed to be busy about other things. It was some time before he came to gloat over his helpless prisoners, and Lobelia made good use of the time. 

By dint of constant supervision and much badgering, Lobelia saw to it that each prisoner had a blanket and twice the food he’d been consuming previously. She moved from cell to cell with impunity, though most of the hobbits would not talk to her. She understood why when she’d been conversing quietly with a hobbit, and after leaving the cell and working her way down the corridor, she heard him cry out. 

Racing unsteadily back to his cell with avenging fury lending speed to her feet, she found a ruffian administering a beating, snarling at the hobbit that he’d broken rule number twenty-six, about maintaining peace and quiet. 

‘I’ll give you PEACE and QUIET!’ she shouted, applying her umbrella where it would do the most good. It did not take her long to drive the ruffian away. After that, she had a little talk with the chief, and the beatings stopped. She did have to promise, however, that the other hobbits would stay tight inside their cells, and not talk unless she were talking to them. These conditions being a great improvement over what had gone on previously, she conceded, for the nonce. 

Fredegar Bolger was improving slowly. Lobelia held him and fed him, making sure he took all the food allotted him, and when she finished with him, she’d move to help another hobbit eat, and then another, any who did not have the strength to feed himself. She found herself spending much of her time with Fredegar, however, talking to him, trying to bring him back to full awareness. 

He was opening his eyes more, these days, and responding to her talk, though he said very little himself, and still insisted that his name was “Number seventy-four”, despite all her efforts to get him to say otherwise. She didn’t know if he was still trying to protect her, or if he were truly deluded. 

Then came the day that she was sitting on the floor of his cell, his head in her lap, coaxing him to eat of the bread she’d soaked in “soup”, and the light from the torches in the hallway dimmed. A chill seemed to surround her, and she looked up to see Sharkey standing in the doorway. He appeared as a kindly old man, grandfatherly, benevolent, but something unpleasant glinted from his black eyes and she stiffened. He spoke, and his Voice seemed to wrap itself around her, trying to take hold. ‘I’m told you do not care for the facilities here.’ 

She answered bravely, though her voice quavered with fear. ‘The food is abominable, not suitable for sustaining life, and your ruffians...’ 

‘The food is not intended to sustain life,’ his Voice said, amused, condescending, quite pleased at the opportunity to enlighten this creature, to make obvious to her the depth of wretchedness she could anticipate. He smiled kindly, shook his head gently, dismissing her as a naughty little hobbit lass, ungrateful to her generous and loving benefactor. ‘It is merely intended to prolong life, for a time, in the greatest misery possible. Death by slow starvation is exquisite torture, would you not say? And most suited to hobbits, in my opinion.’ Fredegar stirred in her arms. Her breath came short, her eyes were wide as she fought to throw off the spell woven by his words. 

Her arms tightened about the hobbit she called “Sandy” as she sat tense and silent, enduring the scrutiny of the wizard’s intense gaze. Finally, the wizard released her from her thrall, smiled warmly, patted her head with his hand, and glided silently away. She sat stiff a moment more, then relaxed, bowed her head, and let fall the tears she had held back since her first sight of the Lockholes and the hobbits buried alive there. 

When she found her voice again, all she said was, ‘Evil. Pure evil that one is. I pray he comes to a fitting end.’ 

She took a shaky breath, and then said in her normal tones, ‘Come now, lad, this bread is going wanting.’ She clenched and unclenched her fist until it stopped its trembling, picked up some sopping bread, and touched it to Fredegar’s lips. ‘Come, take another bite.’ 

After she’d finished feeding him, she laid him down, tucked the blanket carefully around him, and got up. She peered cautiously from the door, but there was no sign of the wizard. He was well gone, then, and good riddance. She emerged into the corridor, squaring her shoulders, resisting the urge to creep along the wall like a frightened mouse. 

Lobelia visited several more prisoners, and then settled again by Fredegar’s side to eat her own supper. Some time after finishing, her head dropped onto her chest and she began to snore, though her hand kept a tight grip on her umbrella. 

Ruffians silently entered the cell, taking up the drugged hobbit, carrying her to an empty cell far down the corridor and laying her within. Lobelia didn’t waken at the sound of the hammer blows. When she did waken, hours later, still clutching her umbrella, she was at first confused, thinking the torches had gone out. She felt her way across the floor, not finding Fredegar as she’d expected. That was odd. She fetched up against a wall and felt her way along to a rounded corner. She kept going along a shorter span to another rounded corner. This was very odd indeed. She felt her way along another wall of smooth stone, to fetch up against the roughness of splintery wood. Feeling upwards and down, then side to side, she realised what had happened. Boards had been nailed across the entrance of this cell, a cell empty except for herself, not even food and water left to her. She was alone in the dark, and there was no way out. 


	6. Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam pauses in his reading, though the story is far from over.

’Is that all, Grandad?’ little Frodo-lad piped. Samwise had stopped reading, and sat as if in deep thought. 

’Is that the end?’ young Lily said. ‘And they all lived happily, to the end of their days...?’ 

’Not quite,’ Sam said, closing the book. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, I’ve read into the middle night.’ He glanced down at small Rose, asleep with her head pillowed on one of his feet. 

’Ah, I know, Dad, and I nearly spoke twice, but we couldn’t stop with the hobbits in that awful place,’ Elanor said. ‘Why, Mum told me how she gave Mr Fredegar a cup of cold water, thinking they were about to take his life. “I couldn’t let him go thirsty to his death, somehow,” she used to say, and it always made a tear come to her eye.’ 

‘But they didn’t know it was him!’ Frodo-lad said in excitement. ‘They took him to the Lockholes instead! Why didn’t they know him, Dad?’ he asked Fastred. 

Fastred took his long-dead pipe from his mouth and said slowly, ‘They never bothered to get to know any hobbits, and so they couldn’t tell a Bolger from a Boffin. We all look alike to them, you see.’ He got up, adding, ‘I’ll just take a look around Undertowers, make sure everything is as it should be.’ 

He exchanged a long glance with Elanor, and she rose, saying briskly. ‘Off to bed with you now, children, there’ll be more of the story on the morrow.’ She looked to Sam. ‘Won’t there, Dad?’ she asked more softly. 

Samwise nodded with an odd little smile. ‘I’ve plenty of time, Ellie,’ he said. ‘I’ve nowhere to be going until I’ve finished the story.’ Fastred had waited for his answer, then let himself out the door. 

’But if they didn’t end happily, what _did_ happen?’ Lily said. 

’I didn’t say they ended badly, Lily,’ Sam said, ‘for there’s a lot of middle to get through, first. But that’ll have to wait for the morrow. Off with you, now, and obey your mother.’ 

‘Good night, Dad,’ Elanor said, getting up and dropping a kiss on her father’s head before turning away to shoo the little ones off towards their beds. She turned in the doorway, saying, ‘And what about you, Sam-Dad? Aren’t you tired?’ 

’I think I’ll just spend a few more minutes with Mr Frodo before I turn myself in,’ Sam said, patting the Book. ‘You go on ahead, I’ll blow out the lamps.’ 

’All right, Dad,’ Elanor said. ‘Good night.’ 

**  
**


	7. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hobbits begin the journey of rebuilding.

Fredegar felt himself borne along, but he hardly noticed the motion. His eyes were fixed on the clouds, marvelling at the varying shades of grey in the sky, the cool fresh-smelling breeze, the feel of the misty rain on his face, the sound of hobbit voices speaking hopefully, or weeping, or singing, or doing all at the same time. 

His mother clung to his left hand as they walked along, talking to him, but the words meant nothing, being mere soothing noises falling upon his ears. He rested in a blissful state of _being_ , without thinking or wondering or wanting. 

This came to an end when they reached the Town Hole. As the stretcher-bearers crossed the threshold he stiffened, seeing the sky disappear from view, hidden by the roof of a tunnel. So soon! They were taking him back so soon, and he’d never again see the sky, nor feel the cool rain. Tears sprang to his eyes, but the hobbits around him didn’t understand. They spoke meaningless words of comfort, and he closed his eyes to retreat to that place where the ruffians could not reach, where the blows no longer hurt and the jeers no longer rang in his ears. 

The Meeting Hall in the Town Hole was soon crowded with survivors and their relatives and friends. The Travellers had gone around to check on all the released hobbits and ended back with the Bridgefields group, helping with their care, talking and listening. Healers moved quietly through the room, repeating the same advice over again to each new group. 

‘They’ll need careful feeding the first days,’ said Finch Smallfoot, a healer who’d come all the way from Bridgefields to find his son Budgie and nephew Robin. 

’I was telling them, Dad,’ Budgie said, sipping at a restorative cup of tea. It was real tea, properly brewed. The townsfolk had breached the storage tunnels and found much of the food “gathered” by the ruffians still there. That was a relief, for Frodo had feared that Saruman had shipped enough of the Shire’s life-blood to the South to cause hunger in the Shire until the next harvest. It was nice to know the wizard’s ill effects would not linger. 

Five litters were laid out in a row, all members of the Bridgefields band, and the rest of the rebels gathered round with their relatives, anxious about their fellows. Freddy and Robin seemed to be the worst off. Stonecrop was too weak to walk, but lucid, and Beechnut and Rory were positively chipper, though the healer shook his head gravely when he examined them. 

’I don’t know how you survived such treatment,’ he said. ‘Starved and beaten as you were...’ 

’I am well,’ Rory insisted. ‘They served Mr Freddy and Robin the biggest helpings,’ he said. 

’They had the bad luck to be in the cells nearest the entrance,’ Beechnut said bleakly, his fingers tightening on his sister’s hand. ‘Whenever the ruffians were in a foul humour, they’d ease their anger on the nearest hobbit.’ 

’I gave Mr Freddy his worst beating,’ Rocky said, burying his face in his hands. 

’I don’t understand,’ Odovacar said slowly. 

Rocky was unable to continue, so Budgie helped him. ‘The worst punishment the ruffians knew was to beat someone else.’ He saw that his listeners did not understand, and struggled to explain. ‘If I were to forget and say Rocky’s name, they’d beat _Rocky_ for having his name said, not just me. A part of my punishment would be to listen to his beating. If I were to set foot over the threshold to my cell, the hobbits to either side of me would be beaten.’ 

Rocky began to weep. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said through his hands, ‘so sorry.’ 

Budgie rested a hand on his shoulder in silent sympathy. 

Healer Finch was slowly unwrapping the bindings around Freddy’s right hand. He sucked in his breath at the sight of the twisted, broken fingers. ‘What in the name of all that’s good...?’ he breathed. 

’Another one of the ruffians’ games,’ Beechnut said shortly. 

’Games?’ Frodo asked. Merry looked to Pippin; both remembered their time amongst the orcs. Thankfully the creatures had been so pressed for speed that there had been little time for games, but how they had talked, how they had promised, how the orcs had eagerly anticipated what was in store for the hobbits after reaching Isengard... 

’That was the Question Game,’ Rocky said softly, bringing his hands down, his cheeks wet with tears. ‘They asked the questions, you answered. For every wrong answer, it was a broken finger, or a blow, or a burn.’ He looked down at the line of burn marks on his own arm and shuddered. 

’We heard the wizard tell his Men that they were free to amuse themselves, so long as the prisoners remained alive and intact,’ Budgie elaborated when it was clear that Rocky could not go on. 

’Intact?’ Healer Finch asked. 

’They couldn’t cut parts off,’ Pippin muttered. Saruman’s orcs had received similar instructions regarding the Halflings they captured at Parth Galen. Merry made an abrupt movement, but Frodo quelled him with a hand on his arm. 

’Fewer than half the hobbits we released bear such marks,’ Frodo said. ‘Why were some so served, singled out as it were?’ 

’They were the rebels; the ones who secretly defied the ruffians, who raided their storeholes to bring food to the hungry, who set traps for them, who...’ Stony said, breaking off as the healer who was examining him touched a particularly painful spot. 

’Hobbits in the Lockholes for uncivil speech or the like were left alone,’ Budgie said, ‘unless they broke one of the rules.’ 

’They didn’t do that very often,’ Stony added. 

’No,’ Budgie agreed. ‘They were quiet as mice in their little holes, never stepped out of their cells, never spoke, ate their meagre portions like good little rats.’ 

’Every so often one of them would be released, to go out into the Shire and tell the Shirefolk what happened to rebels,’ Rocky said. ‘The wizard gave his Men free rein with us rebels, but they were not allowed to harm the others. Those hobbits had to be able to travel about, after release, and spread the news, after all.’ 

’It made for better co-operation,’ Budgie said bitterly. ‘Who in their right mind would rise up against the ruffians, knowing what was in store for them?’ 

’Pippin,’ Merry said now. ‘Come away.’ Pippin protested, but Merry fixed his younger cousin with his “no-nonsense” look, and Frodo, after sharing a long glance with Merry, unexpectedly agreed. 

’Go on, Pip,’ he said. Pippin looked at him quizzically, then allowed himself to be led away, after bending to murmur words of farewell to Freddy. 

‘They’ll have to be re-broken, and reset,’ Finch said to Freddy’s parents, finishing his examination of Freddy’s fingers. Odovacar nodded soberly, while Rosamunda swallowed hard and put her hand to her mouth. 

Supper would be arriving soon, and Healer Finch returned to the subject of eating. ‘In the old records, there are stories of hobbits who foundered when they began to eat again after a starving time,’ he warned. ‘You must start out gradually... light meals, but often.’ 

‘You fill up a waggon too full, the brakes won’t hold going down the hill,’ Stonecrop said. He’d been a carter before the Troubles started. ‘You have to take small loads, you have to make several trips, but at least you get down safely.’ 

’What’s that supposed to mean?’ Rocky snapped. 

’Just what it sounds like,’ Stony said cheerily, happy to have prodded Rocky out of his grief for the nonce. 

Roaring fires had been built in the hearths on each side of the great hall, the room was warming, and large kettles of water were heating. Soon steaming buckets were being carried round, with soft cloths, and soap, and clean clothes donated by townsfolk. The freed hobbits’ filthy, tattered clothing was carefully removed and carried off, the battered bodies were gently washed, their wounds dressed, and then they were clad afresh, to their great comfort 

’I feel a whole new hobbit now,’ Stony said weakly to his wife. 

’You smell a whole new hobbit now,’ she retorted with a smile, though she felt like bursting into tears. She’d counted each rib and each knob on his spine as she’d washed him, and the marks of whip, club, and torch told a grim story to her loving eyes. 

’A good supper would not go amiss,’ a shiny-clean Budgie said to his dad, ‘and after that, a pipe, and a nap, I think.’ 

‘I think we can manage that,’ Finch said. ‘Here comes supper now.’ He pointed to a procession of hobbit mums and tweens, all bearing small covered kettles, and soon savoury smells filled the Meeting Hall as the food was dished out. 

’Broth!’ Budgie said in outrage, being handed his portion. ‘I’ve had enough of that to last me all the rest of my days!’ 

‘Broth for starters,’ Finch said firmly. 

’It bears no resemblance to what we had in the Lockholes, I’m glad to say,’ Beechnut said, sipping at his cup. ‘And I’m told we may have as much as we like!’ 

Budgie sipped at his own mugful. His eyebrows went up at the rich taste. He’d nearly forgotten what real food was like. ‘No more dishwater for this hobbit!’ he said stoutly, holding out his mug for more. It was quickly filled, and he settled back, cupping his hands around the mug, savouring the warmth both inside and outside himself. 

Even Freddy and Robin were roused long enough to take several sips of broth. It was a promising start. 

*** 

Outside the Town Hole, Pippin was arguing with Merry. ‘Why are you being the protective older cousin all of a sudden?’ he demanded. 

’Your father wanted you to return to the Great Smials when we finished here,’ Merry said evenly. 

’Are we finished?’ Pippin said, challenge in his tone. 

’You are,’ Merry said firmly. He held up his hand as Pippin started to protest. ‘You’ve seen enough, Pip. I’ve seen enough, for that matter.’ 

’But you’re going back,’ Pippin said. Merry did not bother to answer this. ‘Pip, you’ve seen enough,’ he repeated soberly. ‘It is time to go home, put this behind, start to take up life as a hobbit again.’ 

‘Take up my knitting by the fire?’ Pippin said, curling his lip. ‘Did you forget, we have to make sure all the ruffians are rousted out of the Shire?’ 

’There is that,’ Merry conceded. 

’Do you expect to sweep all this...’ and Pippin gestured back towards the Town Hole, ‘...under the rug? Act as if it never happened?’ He was trembling with outrage. 

Merry put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Pip,’ Merry said. ‘The histories will say that hobbits suffered. Isn’t that enough? Do people really need to read all the gory details, fill their mind with such thoughts?’ Pippin stood tense, not meeting his gaze, but Merry could tell his young cousin was listening. 

’Elrond had a long talk with me, before we left Rivendell to return home,’ Merry said quietly. ‘Do you want to know what he said? He’s a very wise elf, you know; he’s lived for thousands of years, scores of hobbit lifetimes. Do you want to hear his advice?’ 

’You’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not,’ Pippin muttered. 

Merry smiled. ‘That’s right, I am,’ he said. ‘So hear me, and hear me well, cousin.’ 

’I’m listening,’ Pippin said, finally meeting his eyes. 

’He said that much of the goodness and innocence of Hobbits is that they dwell in goodness and innocence.’ Pippin snorted at this; it sounded rather simple-minded to him. This was “great elf-wisdom”?. Merry put up a hand. ‘Hear me out. Hobbits choose to live in peace, to fill their heads with mundane and everyday thoughts, to dwell on the pleasant things of life, even in the midst of sickness and sorrow.’ 

Pippin nodded. It was the Hobbit way to make light of heavy circumstances. ’Ignorance is bliss,’ he muttered. 

’In a sense. For years we’ve been protected, we know this now, though the average hobbit doesn’t. Rangers and elves have guarded the Bounds, keeping evil things out, for the most part.’ 

‘Until recently,’ Pippin said. Merry nodded, conceding the fact. 

’Until recently,’ he agreed, ‘but the guards are being set in place once more. However, there is a very real danger that the Shirefolk will be poisoned by the attitudes of Men, infected, as it were, and our goodness lost.’ 

’Is Elrond concerned with cultivating the next Ring-bearer?’ Pippin said bitterly. 

’Pip!’ Merry said sharply, and the younger cousin took a deep breath. 

’How are you going to keep this a secret?’ Pippin asked, gesturing again to the Town Hole. ‘How are you going to get hobbits to forget -- o so conveniently! -- the beatings and the hangings?’ 

’They won’t talk about it,’ Merry said. ‘If we leave it alone, you know the talk will return to the common, everyday things of life in the Shire. The histories will be written, and they will be intentionally vague. We can allow knowledge of what happened, lest it be allowed to happen again, without filling the minds of hobbits with things better left unsaid.’ 

’You’re saying...’ Pippin said. 

’Hobbits who never saw a hanging will never learn the meaning of the word,’ Merry said firmly. ‘Hobbits who never felt the whips and burns of the torturers will not be able to imagine such things. The Shire will go on as it always has, Pip.’ 

’Will it?’ Pippin challenged. 

’We shall see to it, Frodo will, you, when you become Thain, and myself. There will be a Shire, Pippin. We shall not allow it to be destroyed by allowing hobbits to take in the evil that is in the hearts of Men.’ 

Pippin opened his mouth to argue further, but Merry shook his head. ‘Go, Pippin,’ he said. ‘You have work to do in Tookland.’ 

’But—‘ Pippin said. 

’Go!’ Merry said, and his tone brooked no contradiction. Pippin stood firm a moment longer, then turned to go. 

’Pip,’ Merry said, and he looked back, only to be drawn into a hug. Merry had come close to losing his younger cousin too many times to let him go with an angry word now. 

’Go with grace, cousin,’ Merry murmured, and released him. 

Pippin nodded. They weren’t finished discussing this yet, but he’d go. ‘And you,’ he replied, and went to find his pony. 


	8. One Step at a Time

On the morning of the following day, Healer Finch re-wrapped Fredegar’s right hand after a more thorough examination. ‘He’s too weak to bear the pain of re-setting the bones, at present,’ Finch told his parents. ‘We need to feed him up, get his fever under control, heal the infected lesions.’ 

’Can we take him home now?’ Odovacar said. ‘He ought to be in a proper hole, a homelike place, well-intentioned as the hobbits here might be.’ 

Finch regretfully shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t chance it,’ he warned. Rosamunda sat silently listening to the conversation, holding her son’s left hand, but when she looked up, her expression went straight to Frodo’s heart. They'd stayed the night in the crowded Town Hole, and while the hobbits of Michel Delving had been kindness itself to the released prisoners and their loved ones, the meeting hall was a far cry from a homey hobbit hole. 

’Would Hobbiton be too far?’ he asked. ‘Bag End is a homey place, and...’ He broke off. 

’What is it?’ Odo said. 

’I keep forgetting,’ Frodo said ruefully. ‘It’s not homey, not the last time I saw it, and...’ 

‘Not to mention that it’s not yours to offer anymore,’ Merry put in. 

’I was about to say just that,’ Frodo said. ‘I’m certainly glad Lobelia didn’t hear me making free with her hole.’ 

Lobelia had been driven away in state, carried off by Bracegirdles who’d come all the way from Hardbottle to look for relatives taken by the ruffians. There’d been several Bracegirdles in the Lockholes, not surprising considering their abrasive tongues. She had been crushed by the news of her precious Lotho’s murder. Uncharacteristically silent, she had allowed her relatives to bundle her into their coach and drive away without a word to anyone, though the townsfolk had cheered her going. (Folk had often _wanted_ to cheer her going, in the past, and now that they had a good reason for it, they made the hills ring with their “huzzahs”.) 

Farmer Cotton spoke then. He’d joined the procession of hobbits on their way to Michel Delving, driving his waggon, in order to bring several hobbits of Bywater back home from the Lockholes. He’d stopped by now to ask when Sam would be returning, and to offer Frodo a room, in case he’d decided against going back to the wilds of Buckland, where all this trouble had started. ‘There’s plenty of room at my place,’ he said. 

’I couldn’t put you out,’ Odovacar said formally. 

’Who said anything about you putting me out?’ the farmer said in surprise. ‘We’ve plenty of room and to spare. Why, we would have taken the Gamgees in when Bagshot Row was dug up, if it was allowed.’ He nodded. ‘There’s room,’ he said. ‘It may not be fancy, but it’s comfortable.’ 

Odovacar smiled. He’d been living in a large cupboard in the hole of his gardener, sleeping on a fold-out bed, hiding with his wife whenever ruffians came around. ‘I’d be beholden to you, sir,’ he said with a bow. 

’What do you think?’ Frodo asked Finch. ‘Bywater’s not that far, a day’s journey, or two at most.’ 

’I suppose we could bundle him up well,’ Finch said slowly. ‘I was going to wait here a few more days before taking Budgie and Robin home. I could check in on him on our way to Bridgefields, see how he’s mending. We can take care of that hand when you get him home, in three, maybe four weeks, I’m thinking.’ 

’Home for Yule?’ Rosamunda said hopefully. ‘And Estella?’ 

’Stell,’ Fredegar breathed. 

’What was that, son?’ Odovacar said, bending over the makeshift bed on the floor of the meeting hall. 

’Where’s Estella?’ Fredegar whispered, trying to lift his head. ‘Where is she?’ he begged his father. ‘Did they lock her up, too?’ 

’No, of course not!’ Odovacar said, shocked. ‘She’s well and safe, Freddy, you know that.’ 

Freddy didn’t seem to hear. ‘Where is she?’ he repeated. ‘Where?’ His eyes closed and he let his head fall back again, exhausted. 

’Where is Estella?’ Frodo asked. 

’Freddy took her to Woody End, to the home of Hally and Rosemary Bolger...’ At Frodo’s blank look, he added, ‘Rosemary was Ferdibrand Took’s sister, until she married against her father’s wishes and was disowned. Ferdi stayed in contact with her.’ 

’I see,’ Frodo said. ‘So Estella is in Woody End?’ 

’No,’ Odovacar said. ‘Ferdi slipped out of Tookland periodically to gather news for the Thain. Freddy hoped that Ferdi could slip back into Tookland with Estella. The Shire was getting to be a dangerous place for pretty lasses, but Tooks kept the ruffians out of their land.’ 

’I see,’ Frodo said again. 

’Once you’re settled in Bywater, it’s only a dozen or so miles across country to the Great Smials,’ Farmer Cotton said. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to send someone to fetch your daughter, or even to go yourself.’ 

’True,’ Odovacar said, looking into his wife’s hopeful face. She’d been bereft of both her children for far too long. He straightened up, saying decisively, ‘Well what are we waiting for? Shall we depart?’ 

’We’ll ride along with you,’ Frodo said. ‘I think our business here is finished.’ 

’I sent Pippin off to the Smials last night; he's probably halfway there this morning. I'd imagine he stopped off at a farm along the way,’ Merry said. ‘I’ll go with you, spend a night in Bywater,’ he looked to Farmer Cotton, ‘if I may,’ and receving a nod, went on, ‘and then go on to the Smials to meet up with Pippin. We’ll be planning the campaign to drive the rest of the ruffians out.’ 

’If there’s anything...’ Odovacar began, turning to Finch. 

The healer smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll get everyone back to Budgeford,’ he said. ‘I brought two waggons with me, hoping that the full score would have survived.’ 

’Old Oakleaf is making everything ready for your return,’ Odovacar said. His gardener would make sure that the rebels would receive a heroes' welcome when they crossed Budge Ford to enter the town, and he’d already arranged for quite a few little comforts to be delivered to the homes of their families, courtesy of the ruffians and the “gathered” goods they’d stashed in storeholes in the Scary Hills. 

’Home,’ Rory said. ‘A fine word it is; I can hardly believe it’s still there.’ 

’That old wizard used to come around to tell us cheerful little tales. He liked to promise us that he’d leave nothing standing,’ Rocky said darkly. 

’He said when he’d finished with the Shire, he’d let us free again, just so we could crawl across the desert that the land had become, and mourn over the homes and hobbits that were no more,’ Stony said, pulling his wife closer. 

’He’s the one that’s no more,’ Frodo said, steel in his voice, curiously mingled with regret. ‘He cannot hurt the Shire or Shirefolk any longer.’ 

’Praise be,’ Rory breathed. ‘Did the hobbits rise up against him at last?’ 

‘No,’ Merry said quietly. ‘Hobbits aren’t that sort of folk. He was killed by one of his own.’ 


	9. Suitable for Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo becomes Deputy Mayor; "There will be a Shire again."

Every hour they coaxed a bit more broth into Fredegar, though it was difficult to get him to take more than a few sips. 

_Slow starvation is exquisite torture_ , Freddy thought. _The wizard had the right of it._ The hobbit had achieved a measure of peace where his belly no longer seemed to remember that it needed feeding and he had drifted in a fog where nothing really mattered, but the few sips of broth reminded him of the pleasures of eating and awakened hunger. 

’More?’ his mother murmured encouragingly. ‘Do have some more, Freddy.’ 

He turned his head away from the cup she held to his lips. He knew better than to ask for more. 

’Don’t force it,’ Finch said. ‘He’s got to get used to eating again, and you’ll only make him sick if you try to give him too much at once.’ 

Rosamunda set the cup aside with a sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said softly. ‘I just want to stuff him full of food, fill out his cheeks, wipe away those awful hollows under his eyes.’ 

’One step at a time, my dear,’ Odovacar said, patting her gently on the shoulder. 

They wrapped him up well, and each of his rebels laid a hand upon his shoulder or a brotherly kiss upon his cheek in farewell. ‘Bless you, Mr Freddy,’ Budgie whispered. ‘We all got through and now we’re going home.’ 

’Home?’ Freddy whispered, and his mother stroked his forehead with a smile. 

’Yes, my love, we’re going back soon,’ she said. 

’Going back?’ Freddy echoed, tears coming to his eyes. _So soon?_ They were going back to the Lockholes already? He fought the tears down. There was little enough left to him, at least he could try to be brave, to continue on to make a good end. 

Tears in her own eyes, his mother said, ‘Yes, my love, that’s right.’ 

Freddy looked more like a hobbit going to a burial, Frodo thought, frowning down at his cousin. With sudden insight he said, ‘Freddy, we’re not going back to the Lockholes!’ 

’Not going back?’ Freddy whispered, confused. He wished they would make up their minds. Or was this part of the wizard’s torment? 

’We’re taking you home,’ Frodo continued, ‘by way of Bywater.’ 

’Home?’ Freddy whispered, closing his eyes, waiting for confirmation. He felt Frodo squeeze his shoulder. 

’Yes,’ Frodo said firmly. ‘Home. We’re taking you back to Budgeford, by easy stages. You’ll be home in time for Year’s End.’ 

Freddy sighed. It was finally finished. He saw now Sharkey’s great wisdom, his benevolent care, though the hobbit had doubted it before. They were taking him home to bury him, just as the wizard had promised. He’d be home in time for Yule, Frodo had said. 

’Most suited to hobbits,’ Freddy muttered. 

’What was that, Son?’ Odovacar asked. 

_Death by slow starvation is exquisite torture_ rang in Freddy’s ears, drowning out the loving voices surrounding him. They were taking him home to bury him. He welcomed the end. 

’Suited,’ Freddy said again. No beating followed, so he must have got it right. 

*** 

’Mr Baggins,’ a Shirriff said, coming up to them as they prepared to depart. ‘I have a note here for you.’ 

’A note?’ Frodo said, surprised. There wasn’t even a Mayor at the moment, for old Will was too ill to take up his office at present. How had the delivery service resumed already? 

The Mayor’s wife had insisted on conveying him home to feed and cosset him. ‘I’ll let you know when he’s ready to be Mayor again,’ she’d said decisively. ‘You go find yourself another Mayor until then!’ 

’Perhaps you ought to act as Mayor, Frodo,’ Merry had jested, and Frodo hushed him. 

’Don’t put ideas in folks’ heads,’ he warned. ‘That wasn’t funny.’ 

’No, it wasn’t,’ Farmer Cotton said. ‘As a matter of fact, it makes quite a bit of sense.’ He regarded Frodo solemnly. ‘The Shirefolk look up to you and Mr Merry and Mr Pippin, and Samwise, for bringing those ruffians down and getting rid of their Boss,’ he said. 

’Then _you_ be Mayor,’ Frodo said to Merry. ‘It was your idea, after all.’ 

’So sorry, cousin,’ Merry said, though he did not sound at all regretful. ‘Pip and I are going to be busy sweeping the rest of the crumbs out the door. It’s up to you and Samwise...’ 

’Go on, Mr Merry!’ Sam said in alarm. 

’Very well,’ Merry said, taking pity on Sam. ‘It’s up to you, Frodo. It’s your civic duty and all that.’ He brightened. ‘I have an idea, cousin! If you’d rather not be Mayor, just call yourself “Deputy Mayor”!’ 

’I don’t know how to thank you for putting my mind at ease, cousin,’ Frodo retorted, and Merry laughed. 

’Give it some thought at least,’ Farmer Cotton said, and Frodo reluctantly agreed to at least do that. 

He was brought back to the present moment by the respectful Shirriff. ‘Yes, sir. I was given this note to give to you ere you departed for Bywater.’ 

’Who gave it to you?’ Frodo asked. The Shirriff shrugged. He thought it had been a hobbit from South Farthing, just from his manner of talking, but the hobbit hadn’t given a name and just as the Shirriff took the note someone else had claimed his attention and the hobbit had melted away in the crowd. 

Frodo turned the note over in his hand, finding his name writ large on the front in bold, handsome copperplate, vaguely familiar. Alarm stirred in the back of his brain. Was Lobelia already going back to her old ways? He thought of all the nasty, pointed, sharply-worded notes she’d sent to him in the past, suitable for starting fires in more ways than one. 

Ah, well, he’d faced Shelob. Surely Lobelia could be no worse. He opened the note. 

Merry, seeing him pale, put a steadying hand on his arm and said, ‘What is it, Frodo? Bad news?’ 

’Lobelia’s given Bag End back to me,’ Frodo said faintly. 

’At a “bargain price”, I’m sure,’ Merry said dryly. 

’No, _freely given_ ,’ Frodo repeated in wonder. 

’Give me that,’ Merry said, taking the note from Frodo and perusing the contents. He whistled low. ‘Just what did those ruffians do to her?’ 

At Sam’s enquiring look, Frodo said, ‘She says she’ll spend the rest of her days with her people, the Bracegirdles.’ He shook his head, blinking away a tear. ‘She _apologised_ for the sorry state of the smial, offered to pay to have it restored.’ He took a deep breath and let it out again. ‘When first I’d come back to the Shire, I feared that the ruffians had ruined everything. Now I see that Shirefolk _have_ changed, and not all for the worse.’ He looked to Merry. ‘There _will_ be a Shire again,’ he concluded. 

’Of course there will be,’ Merry said stoutly. ‘We’ll see to it, of course. No doubt about it.’ Sam nodded. He was in full agreement. 


	10. Of Pig Slops and Milk Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The homeward journey from the Lockholes begins.

The coach travelled slowly down the Great East Road. Teatime found them at the place where a road ran southwards from the Great Road, towards Hardbottle in South Farthing. There was the same small cluster of dilapidated buildings, looking perhaps a little shabbier than they had been near the end of September, when Freddy’s rebels had spent the night in the field across the road from the houses. 

The Travellers had ridden ahead to Waymeet to work out some sort of accommodations for the Bolgers and to find a healer to attend Fredegar overnight. The good citizens of Michel Delving had packed provisions for those leaving for home that morning, and the Bolgers ate as they rode. Odo and Rosamunda took turns coaxing Freddy to take an occasional mouthful of food or drink, but it was a slow and frustrating process, requiring much patience. Now seeing the ramshackle dwellings ahead with smoke rising homily from the chimneys, Odovacar poked his head out the window to call up to his brother Rudivacar, driving the coach. ‘Let us stop here!’ he called. ‘Perhaps we can get a warm drink for Freddy!’ Rudi nodded. Frodo had described this place to him before they'd left Michel Delving and suggested as much. He waved his whip in acknowledgment and pulled the ponies down to a walk, turning into the yard. 

A farmer came from the byre, shading his eyes from the light of the westering sun. ‘May I help you gents?’ he said. It wasn’t often that gentlehobbits were seen in his yard; they usually travelled between Michel Delving and Waymeet without stopping. 

Rudivacar hopped down from the driver’s seat, bowing to the farmer. ‘If you please,’ he said, ‘we were hoping for some sort of warm drink. We’ve a sick hobbit in the coach, and he’s—‘ 

The farmer’s wife came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Tea’s just on!’ she called. ‘Come on in, and welcome!’ 

’We couldn’t impose,’ Rudi began diffidently, but the farmer snorted. 

’Them Travellers come through earlier, told us you was a-comin’ and that you might be all the better for a cup of tea,’ he said hospitably. ‘They left off a pack pony loaded with supplies, so there’s no dearth of food.’ Rudi grinned as he remembered Frodo, Merry and Samwise each leading several pack-ponies fully loaded with supplies gathered by the ruffians and stored in Michel Delving. 

Merry had laughed when Odovacar had raised his eyebrows at seeing them. ‘Did a little shopping in the storeholes,’ he’d said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘We picked up a few things that might come in handy.’ 

Rudi and one of the farmers carried Freddy between them into the homey kitchen of the largest dwelling, propping him in a well-cushioned chair drawn up by the hearth. One of the farmers’ daughters pulled up a stool to rest his feet, and then they swaddled him in blankets like a babe. 

’They said he’d need to be kept warm,’ the farmer’s wife said. ‘We warmed the blankets while we were waiting on you.’ She smiled at Rosamunda. ‘Fern’s the name,’ she said. 

’I’m Rosamunda,’ Freddy’s mother said. 

The farm family sat down to their tea along with Odo and Rudi, while Rosamunda stayed with Freddy by the hearth and coaxed him to take sips of tea with plenty of milk and sweetening, for he refused any food. 

One of the younger lads rose from the table at his father’s prompting and went over to throw another log on the fire. Rosamunda thanked him and he bowed courteously and said, ‘You’re welcome, Mistress.’ 

Freddy, who’d been staring blankly at nothing, suddenly seemed to see the lad. ‘Pig slops,’ he said softly. 

’What was that, Freddy?’ his mother said in astonishment. 

The lad, however, turned and ran to his father, whispering in his ear. His father asked, ‘Are you sure?’ and the lad nodded excitedly. ‘Go!’ the farmer said, and out the door the lad ran, shouting, while the guests sat mystified. 

Soon the other two farmers arrived with their sons, crowding about the hearth. The gentlehobbits followed and then the wives and daughters of the farmers, until there was quite a gathering about Freddy and Rosamunda. ‘Is he one of the rebels?’ the eldest asked gruffly. ‘That last bunch that came through, last summer?’ 

’Pig slops,’ Freddy said again, and smiled. 

’That’s right,’ one of the farmers murmured, and explained to the visiting gentlehobbits how the ruffians had marched the score of exhausted rebels into the yard near sunset that oven-hot day, allowing them to scoop handfuls of stale water from the bottom of the trough. 

’We always kept it full after that,’ another muttered. ‘Fresh and cool, just to be ready...’ 

Taking turns, the farmers and their families proceeded to tell how the ruffians had sat the rebels down in the dust, not a cloak or blanket between them despite the fact that the air would cool rapidly after the Sun sought her bed. Once their charges were lying quietly on the hard, dusty ground, the ruffians had sat down themselves to eat a meal. 

’No food for the hobbits,’ one lad said resentfully. ‘The Men smacked their lips over their fare and dropped crumbs on the ground and laughed, but there was no food for the hobbits.’ 

The families had sent out bread baked for their own dinners, and the ruffians had taken the bread for themselves, telling the families that if they had any leavings after slopping their pigs, that they might share these with the rebels. 

The gentlehobbits listened to the tale, feeling sick at heart. They’d known Freddy and the others had endured suffering and humiliation, from their appearance after coming out of the Lockholes and the little bit they’d cared to tell. The details supplied by the farm families breathed life into the tale. 

’Then Tad had a bright idea,’ one of the older boys said, ruffling the hair of the little lad who’d added the log to the fire. ‘We all agreed, and scraped our own dinners into pails, and topped them off with potato peelings and cabbage leaves and stale bread to make it look as if the buckets were full of pig slops! That old ruffian chief, he checked every bucket but he didn’t dig down to find the food!’ He slapped his hip triumphantly. 

’They might have hauled the lot of you off to the Lockholes for that,’ Odovacar said soberly. ‘We owe you a great deal.’ 

’I wish it could have been more,’ the eldest farmer said, shaking his head sadly. ‘I only wish...’ 

’Freddy?’ Rosamunda said. Her son's hand had tightened on hers. She looked up and around the faces surrounding them. ‘I think he has something he wishes to say.’ 

Freddy smiled, blinking, finally focusing on little Tad. ‘Lad,’ he whispered. ‘My thanks.’ He drew a great breath. ‘Saved my life,’ he finished. 

’Bless you,’ Fern said, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’d a-done more had we thought of anything.’ She too looked about the circle. ‘Go on back to your tea,’ she said. ‘Let the hobbit eat in peace.’ Nodding and smiling, the farmers and their families returned to their interrupted meal while Fern still stood frowning absently at the plate Rosamunda held. 

’Has either of you eaten?’ she asked. 

Rosamunda shook her head. ‘I’ve been trying to get Freddy to take a bite but all he seems to want is tea. Come, Freddy, wouldn’t you like a taste of this lovely pudding?’ He turned his face away. 

Fern patted Rosamunda on the shoulder. ‘I’ll make up some nice milk toast with the fresh milk from this afternoon,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll eat that.’ She bustled away, coming back with a small pot of milk that she placed near the fire to warm. ‘It’ll just be three shakes,’ she told Rosamunda now, and hurried back to the table where the others were eating and talking quietly. She took some toast from the rack and buttered it well, sprinkled it with cinnamon-sugar, and broke it into pieces in a bowl. Returning to the fire, she took up the pot and poured the warmed milk over. ‘Here Mistress,’ she said. ‘See if he can get some of this down.’ 

’Thank you,’ Rosamunda replied as Fern handed her the bowl and spoon. 

’Not at all!’ Fern said cheerily. ‘I make it for my own little ones when they’re poorly. Here you go, lad,’ she said. ‘Eat hearty, now. I’ve gone to all sorts of trouble to make this for you, and I don’t intend to feed it to the cats, d’you hear?’’ 

In her jolly, kind voice, Freddy heard an echo of the mocking ruffians. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to bring you this lovely soup!” the Man would sneer, shoving the cold, greasy, rancid-smelling, unappetising mess at him. “You’re not going to turn your nose up at it, now, are you?” More menacingly, he’d add, “I would drink it right up, if I were you.” 

Meekly he took a few spoonfuls as Rosamunda lifted them to his mouth, to be rewarded by Fern’s pleased, ‘There now, that was what was needed!’ 

’Thank you,’ Rosamunda repeated with relief. 

’You can thank me by eating up your own portion!’ Fern said firmly. ‘It’s too good to go to waste, after all. Those Travellers gave us better than we’ve eaten in months!’ 

’I’d like to get a bit more into my son if I may. Freddy?’ Rosamunda said, but Freddy had closed his eyes, seeming asleep. His mother sighed and picked up her own fork. 

All too soon Odovacar decreed that they must be going on, as arrangements had been made for them in Waymeet and Frodo and Merry would worry if they should be delayed. Flannel-wrapped stones, warmed by the fire, were tucked in amongst Freddy’s cushions in the coach, and fresh coals were put into the footwarmers. They carried Freddy out to the coach and tucked him up snug once again. Odo and Rosamunda climbed in with their son, and Rudi jumped up onto the driver’s seat. Amidst a chorus of good-byes the coach turned out of the yard and onto the road to Waymeet. 


	11. Well-Met at Waymeet

The Travellers rode away from the little settlement, waving to the farmers and their families before urging their ponies to an easy, road-eating pace. 

’I’d like to see their faces when they unpack that pony,’ Merry said. ‘Sam, you’re a wonder! I wouldn’t have thought of half the things you included.’ 

Sam grinned and ducked his head at the praise, blushing when Frodo added, ‘Very resourceful, our Sam is. He knows what supplies will go the farthest, and how to pack an enormity of stuffs—food and otherwise—into an economy of space.’ 

’You really ought to write a book, Frodo, with your grasp of the language,’ Merry teased, and Frodo shook his head with a grin. 

’I suppose you’re ready to sit down and finally write that book on herblore,’ he retorted. 

’All in good time, my hobbit, all in good time,’ Merry said placidly. He gazed over the scenery that they were passing; more ramshackle farms, buildings apparently about to collapse of their own weight, fields overgrown and neglected. ‘Clever of those farmers,’ he said to himself. 

’Eh? What was that?’ Frodo said. 

’I was thinking about what Farmer Barleygrain said back there, about how they’d let the buildings fall into disrepair, dressed the children in rags, made it look to passing ruffians as if it weren’t worth their while to stop. They suffered few losses in terms of crops and livestock, compared to some of the more prosperous-looking farms,’ Merry answered. 

’Farmer Cotton did much the same,’ Sam said. ‘From the outside you’d swear his barn was about to fall on the cows. It’s nicely braced on the inside, but you can’t tell that from the road.’ 

’Yes, and he let the weeds grow up in the fields. It made for a poorer harvest, but the ruffians didn’t bother him too much in their gatherings, either,’ Frodo agreed. ‘Still, with all the trees the ruffians cut down, and all the bricks and boards from those... travesties of buildings they built—‘ 

’Those will be pulled down, first thing,’ Sam predicted. 

’There ought to be plenty of material available for repairs on hobbit dwellings,’ Frodo finished. 

’You’re sounding more and more like a Mayor all the time,’ Merry teased, and Frodo gave him a sour look, then sighed. 

’I’m going to have to take it on, am I not?’ he said with a twist of his mouth. 

’I’m afraid you are,’ Merry said. ‘But fear not, ‘tis only until Mayor Will gets back on his feet.’ He laughed as Frodo shook his head and muttered under his breath. 

They rode into Waymeet as the afternoon shadows were lengthening. Pulling up at the inn on the western edge of town, they stared in dismay at the building, windows broken, door boarded up. Merry and Sam got down from their ponies to peer into the broken windows. They saw cobwebs and dust, overturned and broken furniture, a drift of leaves that had blown in. Some small creature scurried across the floor. 

’The inn is not habitable,’ Merry reported to Frodo, ‘not even if we pulled the boards from the door. It’ll need a lot of work to clear away the debris and make it welcoming again.’ 

’Where, then?’ Frodo said. ‘Freddy needs to rest this night, not drive on through the icy cold in a coach, no matter how well-appointed.’ 

’How about the Boffins?’ Merry said. ‘Don’t they live in Waymeet? It would be easier to impose on a wealthy family than a poor one, I’d say.’ 

Frodo nodded, and they proceeded to the home of the Boffin family, only to find it empty, deserted, looted by ruffians, the windows broken out, door hanging half off its hinges and no evidence of the owners. 

’Perhaps someone at the Shirriff’s house might have a suggestion,’ Frodo said at last. They turned their ponies towards the centre of town, where the ugly brick building erected by the ruffians was to be found. 

'I certainly hope so,' Merry muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the western horizon. 'The Sun will be seeking her bed soon, and we have no bed for Freddy as yet.' 

To their surprise, they found the Shirriff’s house a hive of activity, with hobbits working as busily as bees at pulling the building down. Already there were tidy piles of rescued bricks and floorboards, the doors and windows had been neatly removed and stacked nearby, and hobbits atop the roof were pulling up shingles, tying them together in bundles, and lowering them to the workers on the ground. 

’Folco!’ Frodo cried. ‘Folco Boffin! Hoi there!’ 

One of the workers on the roof straightened to look, waved, and slid down a rope to the ground. ‘Frodo!’ he shouted. ‘Frodo Baggins, you ne’er-do-well, if it isn’t you in the flesh! I’d heard you were back, and instrumental in throwing out the riffraff. Welcome! And about time!’ he finished, hugging Frodo, who’d slid from his pony to meet him. 

’We were looking for a place to stay,’ Merry said, cutting to the meat of the matter. ‘The inns are all closed, I take it, and we went by your home...’ 

Folco shook his head. ‘We’ve lost everything,’ he said ruefully. ‘The ruffians took all. My father signed his fortune over to Lotho to keep his Men from hauling me off to the Lockholes on trumped-up charges. I’m just a working hobbit, now, doing odd jobs to keep body and soul together.’ He brightened. ‘But come home with me! We’re staying with old Gammer Goodbody; she opened her hole to us. A more generous, kindly soul you’ll never meet.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Rations are a little scanty,’ he said, ‘but we’ll make up in merriment what we lack in provender, shan’t we?’ 

Merry laughed. ‘We’ll do better,’ he said. He raised his voice. ‘We’ve brought provisions, courtesy of the ruffians!’ 

The workers laid down their hammers, prybars, saws and other tools and crowded round. Samwise handed out bundles of food to all, and happily there was enough to go round and some left over. 

’Now I see why you insisted on each of us leading a string of ponies,’ Frodo said to Merry. ‘I was afraid you’d been infected by the ruffians’ greed!’ 

’Simply good plain hobbit sense,’ Merry answered cheerily. 

Widow Goodbody had a warm welcome for the Travellers. ‘The more the merrier!’ she cried, bustling to put on the teakettle. ‘We’ll just add water to the soup and it’ll go far!’ 

’You can add more than water, Gammer,’ Folco said, dropping a kiss on her withered cheek as she bent to stir the soup. ‘Our guests have not come empty-handed.’ Indeed they had not. The widow exclaimed as package after parcel was laid upon her well-scrubbed table, and tears began to trickle down her wrinkled face. 

’It is wonderful,’ Mistress Boffin said, putting an arm about the widow’s shoulders. ‘We brought nothing when we came to you, and still you took us in. Now your shelves will be replenished, and I won’t feel so much like a beggar on the doorstep.’ 

’You were never a beggar!’ the widow said sharply. ‘Many’s the time you came with a basket on your arm when I was poorly. I’ll never forget your kindness!’ She hugged the Mistress, wiped her eyes, and said, ‘I’ve some bread nearly “riz”, shall we bake it up in the oven or twist it on sticks and bake over the fire?’ 

’I haven’t done that since I was a lad,’ Master Boffin said, after washing away the grime from helping dig ditches to bury the ruffians’ refuse. Waymeet would once again be a neat and tidy little town, sooner than later, it seemed. 

The Travellers refrained from mentioning that much of the bread they’d eaten fresh, over the past months, had been baked on sticks over a fire—when they could have a fire. 

While Mistress Boffin and Widow Goodbody put the finishing touches on supper, Master Boffin and Folco told of the difficulties of the past year. ‘I was never so glad as when I heard you’d come back and tossed those ruffians out on their ears!' Folco's father finished. 'Is it true that their Boss is dead?’ 

’Do you mean Lotho? Or Sharkey?’ Frodo said. 

’Either. Both,’ Master Boffin said. 

’Both are dead,’ Frodo said quietly. ‘Lotho was murdered by one of Sharkey’s Men.’ 

Master Boffin shook his head. ‘Poor Lotho,’ he said softly. ‘Bit off more than he could chew, I think. There was so much promise in that lad. He could have gone far...’ They all sat silent for a few moments, and then Widow Goodbody bustled up. 

’Haven’t you finished baking that bread yet?’ she asked. ‘Soup’s on the table!’ 

’We’re just done,’ Frodo said, rising hastily. They brought the platter with its twists of bread to the table and bowed to Widow Goodbody. ‘We thank you for your hospitality,’ Frodo said. 

’You’re more than welcome, lad,’ the widow said. ‘Now sit down and eat before it gets cold!’ 

While they ate, they told of releasing the prisoners from the Lockholes. ‘The Bolgers are on their way as we speak,’ Frodo said. ‘We were able to travel much faster, ponyback, and pressed our mounts for speed so that we could find a place for them to stop over here in Waymeet.’ 

’They can stay here!’ the widow said firmly. ‘The more the merrier! Most of my children are grown and gone away; there are plenty of beds, and for some reason the ruffians never bothered me, never came in to steal the linens all neat and folded in the cupboards.’ She smiled a sly smile, and the Travellers remembered the ramshackle appearance of the outside of her dwelling, in complete contrast to the warm, comfortable interior once you passed the bleak, shabby entryway and the dusty, cobwebby parlour. 

While Frodo conversed with the widow and the Boffins, Sam and Merry prepared a bed for Freddy in one of the spotless bedrooms. They made up the bed with linens that smelt faintly of lavender and coverlets that the widow provided, tucked heated bricks in to warm the bed, and then Sam started a fire on the little hearth. ‘It’ll be nice and cosy for Mr Freddy,’ he said. He added a few plump cushions to the bed so that they could sit the sick hobbit up to feed him, then stepped back to survey the effect. ‘That bed looks cosy enough to sleep in,’ he decided, stifling a yawn. 

’I should imagine, Samwise, that you’re ready to seek your own bed,’ Merry said. ‘You were up early, looking after Frodo, and have earned a bit of rest.’ 

’I’m fine, Mr Merry, really I am,’ Sam said, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. He and Merry made up the rest of the rooms needed, and then Merry sent him off to bed, not taking any argument. 

’Where’s Sam?’ Frodo said, when Merry returned to the kitchen. 

’I sent him off to bed,’ Merry said. ‘And you ought to be the next to go.’ 

Frodo’s eyebrows went up. ‘Just who’s the eldest cousin, I’d like to know?’ he said. 

’I am,’ Merry responded. ‘At least, I’m the eldest when it comes to sense. You take yourself off to bed, Fro, and I’ll make sure the Bolgers find this place.’ It took a little more persuading, but Frodo finally acquiesced. 

After the washing-up was finished Merry turned to Folco. ‘Would you like to come along?’ he asked. ‘It’ll be a bit cold, waiting, and I don’t know exactly when to expect them.’ 

’You make it sound so inviting, I don’t know how I could refuse,’ Folco laughed. ‘If I may, Father?’ 

Master Boffin chuckled. ‘I’m hardly in charge anymore,’ he said. ‘Head of the first family in town? Not for months, now. You go ahead, Folco, and we’ll make sure there are pots of hot tea for you and the Bolgers when you get back with them.’ 

Merry and Folco mounted ponies and rode to the inn at the western edge of Waymeet, stopping off at the healer’s to let him know his services might be needed later. Reaching the inn, they scavenged enough wood for a bright fire, and sat down, huddled in their cloaks against the icy air, warming their hands and talking to pass the time. 

’So where did you and Cousin Frodo go when you disappeared?’ Folco asked. ‘Everyone said you were dead, but I had my doubts.’ 

Merry told him the short version, but even so, he was not finished when they saw the lanterns of the approaching coach. ‘Hoi!’ Merry shouted, standing and waving his arms. ‘Well come, and well met!’ 

Rudi drove up to them and pulled the ponies to a stop. ‘How long have you been freezing your toes off out here?’ he said in consternation. ‘It’s very late!’ 

’Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service!’ Merry said with a sweeping bow. ‘The inns are closed, as you can see, but we have found you accommodation and will guide you there. May I present my fellow guide, Folco Boffin.’ Folco added a bow of his own. 

’Young Folco!’ Rudi said. ‘I’d heard you were hauled off to the Lockholes, and when we didn’t find you there I feared the worst.’ 

’Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,’ Folco said with a grin. ‘Are we going to stand here talking all night? I’m freezing my toes off!’ 

‘Lead on, o guide,’ Rudi said with a flourish of his whip. Merry and Folco mounted their ponies, and the coach followed them through the silent streets. The only sign of life this late at night was the glow of watchlamps in the windows, but it was a nice, homey sight to Merry after the dark wilds. 

Arriving at Widow Goodbody’s, they quickly had Fredegar settled in the soft, warm bed. He roused enough to ask, ‘Where are we?’ 

’Waymeet,’ Frodo said (he'd awakened on hearing the arrival), adding another coverlet and pulling it up to his cousin's chin, while Samwise, all the better for his nap, settled Rosamunda in the chair next to the bed and brought her a cup of tea. 

’Too late for supper,’ Freddy murmured, remembering how the rebel band had stumbled into Waymeet in the wee hours, been shoved into a corner of the Shirriff house and forced to watch the ruffians feast while they themselves went hungry, save a wormy apple one of the ruffians threw their way. There had been just enough for each of the hobbits to have a bite, a small one at that, not much more than a nibble. 

’Of course it’s not too late for supper!’ Widow Goodbody cried, shuffling in with a tray. 

’Are you hungry, Freddy?’ Rosamunda said hopefully. 

’No,’ Freddy said. ‘Robin can have my bite of apple; he needs it more than I do.’ 

’I just so happen to have some lovely apples, baked in the coals of the kitchen fire,’ Widow Goodbody said cheerily. ‘Laced with butter and cinnamon-sugar, smothered in cream and soft enough to eat with a spoon! And more where that came from!’ 

Rosamunda coaxed half an apple into Freddy, one spoonful at a time, but it was slow going, and more than once he seemed to go to sleep, but she pinched him gently each time to waken him, until at last he moaned and said, ‘No more...’ She sat back in dismay. It seemed to her he hadn’t eaten enough this day to keep a gnat alive, much less a hobbit. 

’One step at a time,’ Odovacar said softly, his hands on her shoulders. ‘At least he’s eating.’ 

Folco had fetched Healer Goodbody, one of the widow’s grandsons as it turned out, and he examined Freddy while Rosamunda and Odovacar ate. 

’He is very weak,’ he warned, straightening from the bed. ‘I wouldn’t take him any further than Bywater, and it might be best if he stayed here a few days.’ 

’If we can take him to Bywater, it would make things easier,’ Odo said quietly. ‘I have business with the Thain, and Bywater is closer to the Great Smials than Waymeet. I do not want to leave my son for any length of time.’ 

’You could take him to Bywater,’ Healer Goodbody said slowly, ‘but no further, I’d say. He needs a good long rest, and a lot of feeding up.’ 

’You’re welcome to stay here as long as need be,’ the widow said. ‘Surely your business with the Thain can wait?’ 

Odo shook his head. ‘I must reunite my family,’ he said stubbornly. ‘My daughter was sent to Tookland for safekeeping, and I do not care to impose on the charity of the Tooks any longer than I have to. Besides, Freddy was asking for his sister earlier. Perhaps sight of her, safe and sound, would chirk him up a bit.’ 

’I know it would set my mind at rest,’ Rosamunda put in. ‘I haven’t seen her in months! ‘Twill be so nice to have a daughter again.’ 

’Very well,’ said Healer Goodbody. ‘Take him on to Bywater on the morrow, but keep him well wrapped-up, and try to get food into him, small amounts, as often as you can manage. I’ll leave a strengthening tonic with you as well.’ He shook Odo’s hand, bowed to Rosamunda, and went off to the kitchen with his grandmother, for a chat over tea and the cookies he’d grown up on. 

In the privacy of the kitchen, with all the others still gathered around Freddy, the widow sat down with her own cup of tea and fixed her grandson with a stern eye. ‘How is he, really?’ she asked. 

’It could go either way for him,’ her grandson said softly. ‘They may be taking him home, in truth, to find healing, or to bury him. At this point, I cannot say for sure which it will be.’ 


	12. Ups and Downs

Early next morning, they bundled Freddy up and put him into the coach once again, well tucked up with hot bricks, his feet on a footwarmer filled with hot coals. His mother had tried without success to get him to eat something more substantial for breakfast: some lovely fluffy scrambled eggs, perhaps, or even some custard, to no avail. He took a little tea, but turned his face away from all other attempts. 

’Freddy, you must eat!’ she said in desperation, but he only shook his head, eyes tightly closed, a tear sliding down one wasted cheek. He knew this trick. The ruffians would put tempting food before a prisoner, urge him to eat, and then beat him when he reached for the food. They couldn’t catch him in that trick. It hurt, however, to hear the ruffians making his mother cry, and despite the risk of punishment, he spoke at last. 

’Please,’ he whispered. 

’Try the milk toast,’ Odo suggested. ‘He took that, before.’ 

Widow Goodbody lightly toasted a slice of the bread she’d baked that morning, buttered it well, sprinkled it with cinnamon sugar, and poured over warmed milk from her neighbour’s cow. ‘Come lad,’ she said sternly. ‘No nonsense, now! You eat this up, we don’t like to waste good food here.’ 

’Please, Freddy,’ Rosamunda begged, gulping back her tears. 

Freddy sighed. Very well, then, let them beat him. He could not bear to hear his mother weeping any longer. He ate several spoonfuls of the mixture, tensing after each, before relaxing and accepting more without apparent resistance. Rosamunda was able to feed him the entire bowlful, to her great relief. She looked up into Odo’s face, and he smiled back at her. It was a minor victory in the fight to win their Fredegar back. 

They stopped off at several farms along the way to renew the coals in the footwarmers, warm the bricks tucked into Freddy’s covers, and obtain mugs of hot tea, but by early afternoon, the coach was turning off the East-West road, north to Bywater. Here as well, hobbits were busily taking down the ruffians’ buildings, setting the salvaged materials in neat piles for better use. A cheer was raised for the Travellers, and Merry and Frodo waved gaily in answer. Sam had ridden ahead to let the Cottons know they were nearly there. 

Rudi slowed the ponies to a walk as they turned into the lane leading to the Cottons’ farm, but it turned out he hadn’t needed to take that precaution. Someone had filled in the holes and smoothed out the ruts, and the coach moved smoothly up the lane, stopping in the wide yard in front of the Cottons' house. The large round door at the top of the steps was thrown open, and Cottons boiled out of the house like ants disturbed in their nest. 

’Welcome!’ Farmer Cotton shouted. ‘Nibs, Jolly, take care of the ponies; Tom, Nick, help them get Master Fredegar into the house! The kettle’s on, and we’ve got everything ready.’ 

They had indeed. The best room had a bright fire on the hearth and the bed was made up with several layers of featherbedding, for Sam had described Freddy’s thinness to them. ‘No meat on his bones,’ he’d said. 

’We’ll have to watch for bedsores, then,’ Mrs Cotton had said briskly. ‘His bones’ll wear right through the skin if’n he’s not resting on clouds.’ The bed was soft as clouds, indeed. Freddy felt himself sinking into layers of comfort, with more layers laid over him, and he sighed. 

‘There you are, lad,’ Mrs Cotton said now, softly. There were tears in her eyes. She thought of her fear that Tom might be taken off to the Lockholes, for he’d taken to sneaking out at night, and who knew where he went or what he did when he got there? It might be her son lying there in a bed, a mere ghost of a hobbit. ‘Would you care for a bite to eat?’ 

’No,’ Freddy said, attempting to smile. ‘Thank you kindly.’ 

Rosamunda caught the eye of the farmer’s wife and said, ‘Would you have any broth? That seems to go down easily, especially if he can sip it from a mug.’ 

’I can do even better,’ Mrs Cotton said. ‘Beef tea, that’s nice and strengthening, and we’ve made up some already, knowing you were coming.’ She left the room, returning soon with a steaming mug. ‘See if he’ll take that,’ she said, ‘and I’ll put together a tea tray for you and your husband.’ 

’My thanks,’ said Odovacar, ‘but my brother and I must be riding to Tuckborough now.’ 

’Tuckborough!’ Mrs Cotton said. ‘Don’t you want to stop for tea first?’ 

’No, missus,’ Odovacar said, ‘though I thank you kindly. I have urgent business with the Thain.’ 

’You might not catch him at home,’ Farmer Cotton said from the door. ‘He’s driving the ruffians out of the Shire, you know, the ones to the South and West, anyhow. Mr Merry and Mr Pippin were to drive them out of the other parts.' 

’Well, I’m sure he’s left someone at home,’ Odo said pleasantly, ‘and all I want is to fetch my little girl back from the Great Smials, anyhow.’ 

At the Cottons’ puzzled look, Rosamunda explained, ‘We sent her to Tookland for safekeeping. I’m a Took, you know.’ 

’Ah, yes, Mistress,’ Farmer Cotton said, his face clearing. ‘Of course, she’d be safer amongst her relatives there. No ruffians crossed their borders, after all. Would that we’d kept them out of the entire Shire that way!’ 

’Indeed,’ Odovacar said. He kissed his son on the forehead. ‘Be well, Freddy,’ he said. ‘I shall return soon.’ Then he kissed his wife, squeezed her arm, and left the room. 

’Come, Freddy, take a sip,’ Rosamunda said, turning her attention to getting the beef tea into her son. Fredegar sipped obediently, but made a face when he discovered by the taste that it wasn’t tea in the mug. ‘What’s the matter, my love?’ she said. ‘Come, now, it’s good beef tea, very strengthening. Drink up!’ By dint of much coaxing and more than a little scolding, she was able to get the rest of the mug into him. 

*** 

Odovacar and Rudivacar changed from coach to saddle for the trip across country to Tuckborough. Optimistically, they led an extra pony for Estella to ride on the return trip. Just before sunset, they were hailed by a small group of Tooks. ‘Who are you, and where do you think you’re going?’ 

’I have business with the Thain,’ Odovacar called back. 

’He’s not at home!’ came the answer. ‘You might as well turn around and not waste your time!’ 

’Then I have business with whomever he’s left in charge at the Smials!’ Odovacar shouted. He waited for the Tooks to come up to them. 

’State your business,’ the Took said. His bow was strung, and he held it and an arrow in the same hand, in the casual way that archers do when it is merely the matter of the wink of an eye from rest to shooting stance. 

’It is personal business,’ Odo said evenly. There was no point in being rude to Tooks; they could be rude enough for two, and if he offended these he’d be turned away summarily and perhaps not allowed back in the bargain. 

’What business?’ the Took persisted. 

Odo considered, and finally said, ‘I am Odovacar Bolger, do you know me?’ 

’I’ve heard of you,’ the Took admitted, after a pause for consideration. 

’My wife is Rosamunda Took,’ he went on. ‘The matter I wish to discuss with the Thain or his representative is Took family business. My wife could not come, as she is tending our son, who is very ill after being released from the Lockholes.’ 

’I’d heard about that,’ the Took said unexpectedly, and Odo wondered at his source of information. The Tooks prided themselves on knowing everything about everyone else while keeping their own business amongst themselves. ‘Very well,’ he decided. ‘Follow me. We still haven’t dismantled all the traps we laid against the ruffians, so for your own safety, stay close.’ 

He waved at the rest of the Tookish guards, who seemed to know what was expected of them. When Odo looked behind him, as they rode away, the other Tooks had already disappeared once more into their hiding place, from whence they could easily challenge, or shoot, any comers. 

It was refreshing to ride into Tuckborough, to see things unchanged, the Shire as it had been before the ruffians came. The buildings and hobbit holes were in good repair, the trees were intact, there were even some late-blooming flowers in window boxes, bright in the light shining out from windows sparkling clean. The Great Smials reared up behind the town, standing as it ever had. The only difference Odo noted was the guards outside the entrances of Smials and outbuildings, armed and ready for trouble. 

He and Rudi dismounted, and a stable lad was there immediately to take their ponies. ‘Will ye be staying over?’ he asked. 

’I hope it won’t be necessary,’ Odo said. ‘I hope to conclude my business quickly.’ 

’Very well, sir,’ the stable lad said. ‘I’ll rub ‘em down good and give ‘em a feed, but we’ll keep the saddles handy in case you call for them.’ 

’Thank you, lad,’ Odo said, offering a copper to the lad. 

‘Thankee, sir,’ the lad said, and led the ponies away. 

At the door they were challenged again. ‘I have business with the Thain,’ Odo repeated. He wondered to himself how many times he’d have to say the words. 

’The Thain’s not here,’ one of the guards at the main entrance said. 

’He knows that, Haldegrim,’ Odo’s guide said, ‘so take him to see Reginard, will you? I’ve got to get back to my hobbits.’ 

’Very well,’ Haldegrim said sourly. ‘Come along, you,’ he said to Odo. ‘Don’t dawdle.’ 

Odo had no intention of dawdling, but he and Rudi were hard pressed to keep up with the Took’s swift strides, leading them deep into the Great Smials, to the Thain’s study. Odovacar had been here on occasion in happier times, and he remembered strolling at a leisurely pace down the corridor with Paladin, in happy anticipation of a glass of fine ale at the end of the journey. 

The guard stopped suddenly, to knock upon a door. He stuck his head in, said, ‘Visitors for the Thain,’ then swung the door wide to let the Bolgers enter. 

’The Thain’s not here,’ Reginard Took said, rising from his desk to greet them. He knew Odovacar, of course, and had seen Rudivacar on several occasions. 

’I know that,’ Odo said, ‘but I hope that you can help me. I’ve come for Estella.’ 

’Estella?’ Reginard said, a puzzled look on his face. ‘What makes you think Estella is here?’ 


	13. Taking Up the Fight

Yet another healer was poking and prodding him. Freddy sighed but made no protest, and this worried Rosamunda as well. Her son was half Took, and lived up to his Tookish side in his disdain for healers, but at the moment he might have been a helpless babe, so meekly he submitted. 

’Well then, Master Fredegar,’ Healer Grubb said, straightening up. ‘You and I have our work cut out for us and no mistake!’ She motioned to Rosamunda. ‘I would speak to you over a cup of tea, perhaps, Mistress?’ 

’I’ll keep watch,’ Merry said. ‘You go on.’ 

In the kitchen, Mrs Cotton brought the healer a cup of freshly-brewed tea. ‘What is it, Anise?’ she asked. 

’Thankee,’ the healer said, sipping the tea, then turned to the anxious mother. ‘Your son is dying,’ she said bluntly. 

Rosamunda gasped and put her hand to her heart. 

’You’d feared as much,’ Anise Grubb said shrewdly. The brutal truth was needed here if there was to be any hope of saving her patient. She was sure that healers before her had sung the tune she was about to sing (“frequent, small meals”) but she was going to drive the message home before they killed Fredegar with kindness. 

’You told me yourself he’s refusing more than a few bites of food,’ she went on. Rosamunda nodded. ‘Well, that will not do at all. You must _force_ your son to eat, at least a teacupful every hour. You may allow him sleep two or three hours at a stretch at night, but waken him several times in the night to feed him as if he were a babe. I don’t care what it takes to get the food down him. If he doesn’t eat he’ll die.’ 

Frodo stepped up behind Rosamunda, taking up her hand in his. ‘We’ll all help, cousin,’ he said. 

’Indeed we will,’ Mistress Cotton said firmly, and Rose nodded. 

’I have some tonic here,’ the healer said, ‘and you can give him a large dollop in a cup of tea every hour, but it’ll do him no good if he doesn’t take food — and warm milk with a touch of honey would be better than tea. Do I make myself clear?’ she said, gazing intently into the mother’s eyes. 

Rosamunda nodded slowly, her resolve hardening. ‘Very clear,’ she said firmly. 

’You take a rest now, Mistress,’ Mrs Cotton said firmly. ‘You’ve been travelling for days, and it won’t do your son any good should you fall ill. We’ll manage the next few feedings.’ She looked to her daughter. ‘Rose, dish up some of that apple compote we made today; it’s good and fresh and flavourful. I’ll stir up a nice custard for his next meal.’ 

’A rest is a good idea,’ Healer Grubb said, taking Rosamunda’s arm and guiding her from the kitchen. ‘I’ll just see you settled, and watch over Rose to see how the apple compote goes, and then I’ll stop in first thing on the morrow.’ 

’I am well,’ Rosamunda’s protest floated back to the others in the kitchen, but evidently the old healer had her way for she returned alone, saying, ‘Where’s that apple compote?’ 

’Right here,’ Rose said, picking up the spoon and a clean cloth in one hand, bowl in the other. The healer examined the apple compote with a critical eye and gave a satisfied nod. ‘I wouldn’t mind a little of that myself when we’re through,’ she said. 

Freddy tried to turn away from the spoon, but Rose was merciless. ‘I’m told you like a saucy apple,’ she said with a smile, determination in her tone, ‘and these are very saucy indeed.’ 

*** 

Odovacar stood in shock; his brother Rudivacar had the presence of mind to take his arm, guide him to a chair and sit him down. ‘Do you have a glass of water?’ he said urgently to Reginard. 

Reginard quickly poured out a glassful from a pitcher on the side table and brought it to them. 

’Drink, brother,’ Rudi urged. Odo shook his head, but Rudi pressed the glass upon him until he drank just to have his brother leave off. 

’Better?’ Reginard said, eyeing the older hobbit closely. 

’Yes, thank you,’ Odo murmured. The others were glad to see colour slowly returning to his face. 

’What did you mean, Estella is not here?’ Rudi pressed. 

’Just what I said,’ Reginard answered. He smiled faintly. ‘Wouldn’t you think we’d have noticed, were she here?’ Estella’s lively spirit could hardly be contained, after all. The last time the Bolgers had visited, she’d practically turned the Great Smials on its head. 

’But—‘ Odo said. He tried again. ‘We sent her to Tookland.’ 

’Sent her to Tookland?’ Reginard said slowly. His eyes narrowed. ‘When?’ 

'Last Spring,’ Rudi said. ‘The Shire was becoming too dangerous for pretty lasses, and Odo and Rosamunda were afraid someone would point out to the ruffians that Rosa was a Took, which would put her and the children in danger.’ 

’None have passed the borders of Tookland but a few Tooks who stole out to gather news,’ Reginard said. 

Rudi seized on this fact eagerly. ‘That’s right!’ he said. ‘Rosemary Bolger is Rosamunda’s niece, and Ferdibrand, her brother—‘ 

’Rosemary Bolger is no longer a Took,’ Reginard said. ‘She was disowned by her father when she married.’ 

’Rosemary’s brother Ferdibrand,’ Rudi continued doggedly, ‘was said to visit her periodically, to gather news.’ 

’Said by whom?’ Reginard demanded. 

Rudi shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘Freddy found out somehow; even then he was going out at night, to “inconvenience” the ruffians. He might have heard of other hobbits doing the same thing.’ 

’Even if Ferdi were slipping out of Tookland he wouldn’t have gone by his own name,’ Reginard said. 

’No, he was known as “the Fox”, I believe,’ Rudi said. 

Reginard nodded slowly. ‘If you know that much, I suppose there’s no use denying it,’ he conceded. 

’Freddy took Estella to Rosemary Bolger’s home,’ Rudi said. ‘Rosemary admitted that Ferdi would visit soon, and that she’d impose upon him to take Estella back into Tookland. That was the last we heard. Rosemary told us that she’d send word only if something went wrong, that “no news” would be “good news”.’ 

’I see,’ Reginard said thoughtfully. 

’Is Ferdibrand here, in the Smials?’ Odo asked. ‘May I speak with him?’ 

’He is here in the Smials,’ Reginard said. 

’Very well, then!’ Rudi said. ‘We’ll talk to him, and he’ll tell us what happened to Estella!’ 

’If only it were that simple,’ Reginard said ruefully. 

’What do you mean?’ Rudi asked, feeling Tookishly irritated, though he was Bolger through and through. 

Reginard took a deep breath, and sorrow was in his voice when next he spoke. ‘Ferdibrand was badly injured in the Battle of Bywater,’ he said. ‘He is not expected to live.’ 

*** 

’Where are you going?’ Frodo asked Merry, seeing his cousin draw on his gloves and settle his cloak about his shoulders after the healer took her leave. 

’I told Pippin I’d meet him in the morning, to ride to Buckland,’ Merry said. 

’I thought you were going to spend the night in Bywater,’ Frodo said, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘It’s the middle of the night! Why don’t you get a few hours of sleep, first?’ 

’I’m not sleepy,’ Merry countered. ‘Besides, Pip was actually expecting me earlier today, so I’m already a day late!’ He glanced at Frodo. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ 

’I had a nap earlier,’ Frodo answered, ‘which is more than I can say for you!’ 

Merry laughed. ‘The solicitous older cousin!’ he said. ‘I’m not a babe, that you have to send me off to bed, Frodo! I can take care of myself, honestly I can.’ 

’You might start by sleeping,’ Frodo said. 

Merry shook his head. ‘I’ll sleep,’ he said. 

’When?’ Frodo pressed. 

’When I get to Tuckborough, undoubtedly. You’re making me later with every word. If I’m robbed of sleep, it will be _your_ fault!’ 

’Merry—‘ Frodo began, but with another laugh, his cousin broke in. 

’Watch over Freddy for me, will you?’ he said. ‘Tell him I’ll be thinking of him as we drive the ruffians out of the Shire.’ 

’Tell him yourself,’ Frodo said, grabbing his arm. ‘Merry, you don’t want to ride to Tookland in the dark. Don’t you remember what Pippin said, about the traps the Tooks laid for the ruffians? Your pony’s likely to break a leg!’ 

Merry abruptly lost his smile. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said. 

’You should have,’ Frodo said sternly. ‘You’re dropping on your feet. Go to bed! First light is early enough to depart, and you’ll have a fine breakfast cooked by Rosie Cotton in the bargain.’ 

’Rosie Cotton’s cooking,’ Merry said thoughtfully. ‘You can be very persuasive when you set your mind to it, Mayor — er, I mean, cousin.’ 

’Go on with you,’ Frodo said with irritation, but after Merry had taken himself off to the bed made up for him by Mrs Cotton he chuckled softly. 

Mrs. Cotton entered the kitchen to check on the custard in the oven. ‘Set up nicely,’ she said with satisfaction. She cocked a sharp eye at Frodo. ‘And why are you not in bed, Mr Baggins?’ she asked. 

’I was waiting for a taste of that fine-smelling custard,’ Frodo said candidly, ‘and then I thought I’d take a turn feeding some of it to Freddy. I haven’t had the chance to badger him properly for ages.’ 


	14. More than Fast Enough

At Rudi’s insistence Reginard took them to see Ferdibrand’s father, Ferdinand. He lived in the depths of the Great Smials, where the old and infirm stayed, and never left his room. 

’It’s late,’ Reginard warned. ‘He might already be abed.’ 

’We’ll waken him if we have to,’ Rudi said grimly. ‘This is important. We need to find Estella.’ He lowered his voice, glancing at his brother. ‘Fredegar, her brother—‘ 

’Freddy’s dying,’ Odovacar said quietly. ‘I had hoped to fetch his sister to his side before he leaves us.’ 

Regi nodded slowly. ‘Pippin told us how it was when they brought him out of the Lockholes,’ he said. They walked in silence the rest of the way, then Reginard said, ‘Here we are.’ 

He knocked upon the door, and an old auntie answered, opening the door and speaking softly. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What is it? Do you know how late it is? Late supper is over and done and Ferdinand’s abed.’ 

’These hobbits need to speak with him on an urgent matter,’ Reginard said. ‘Tell him his brother-in-love Odovacar is here.’ 

’Just a moment,’ the old auntie said, closing the door in their faces. A little more than a moment later the door opened again. ‘He’ll see you,’ she said, swinging the door open wider and leading them past the little hearth with its large, comfortable chair to the bedroom beyond. This room was dimly lit and Ferdinand was in shadow, propped up on the bed. 

’What is it?’ he said bad-temperedly. ‘Why do you disturb my rest?’ 

In his mind’s eye Odovacar saw the dashing young Took who’d wooed and won his sister, Stelliana, even as Odo had wooed Ferdinand’s sister Rosamunda. The four had spent hours together, walking, riding, picnicking, picking flowers, dancing in the sunlight, splashing in the shallows near Budge Ford, fishing in the Tuckbourne, lying on their backs on the grass making up stories about the clouds or watching the stars wheel overhead. 

The Ferdinand whom Odovacar had known and loved as a brother had vanished forever in the terrible fire years ago that had taken his stables, his ponies, his fortune, and his arms and legs. In addition his brother Ferdibrand, for whom his son was named, had perished in that fire, and his wife had lost her wits after watching the burning stables collapse upon them. She died raving not long after. All that was left of him was a broken, bitter hobbit, living on the charity of the Thain. He saw almost no one excepting his son and now his son was dying, struck down by a ruffian’s club. 

’Ferdi spent every evening with you when he was here in the Smials,’ Odo said. 

’He did, that, though he doesn’t any more,’ Ferdinand gritted. ‘The ruffians have seen to that.’ 

’He was to have brought my daughter to Tookland,’ Odo said. Ferdinand was silent. Odo tried again. ‘My Freddy took Estella to Rosemary’s house...’ 

’I don’t know what you mean,’ Ferdinand said. 

’Your daughter—‘ Odo tried again. 

’I have no daughter,’ Ferdinand said implacably. 

’Ferdi was to have taken Estella from Rosemary’s house,’ Odo said desperately. ‘He was to have brought her to safety in Tookland. Now we find he did not bring her to Tuckborough. Did he ever mention anything to you about the matter?’ 

Ferdinand laughed, a terrible sound. ‘So you’ve lost your daughter as well,’ he said. ‘There seems to be a lot of that going around.’ 

’Did he say anything about Estella to you?’ Odo pressed. 

Ferdinand stopped laughing and sat in silence. ‘I know what it is to lose a daughter,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Odo. I cannot help you.’ 

’Did Ferdi--?’ Odo said. 

’He said nothing of Estella to me,’ Ferdinand said heavily. ‘He always talked of pleasant things: the sunshine on the daisies, the cold, clear water of a spring bubbling from a hillside, the whisper of wind in the leaves. He never talked of his forays outside of Tookland, and I never asked. I’m sorry,’ he said again, and in the shadows they saw him turn his face away. ‘Leave me,’ he added. ‘I have no more words for you.’ 

’Come now,’ the old auntie said, finality in her tone. They went. 

Outside Ferdinand’s rooms, Odo said, ‘May I see Ferdibrand?’ 

’What good would that do?’ Reginard said. 

’No good at all, probably,’ Odo answered, and waited. 

Reginard nodded to himself. At least Odo would know he’d followed every possible branch of the trail. ‘I’ll take you to him,’ he said. ‘Just don’t expect anything.’ 

’I don’t,’ Odo said. The Bolgers followed Reginard down several twists and turns, stopping at last at a door that stood partially open. Reginard rapped softly. 

’Enter,’ was heard from within. 

Reginard pushed the door open and the Bolgers entered. Pimpernel, daughter of Thain Paladin, rose from one of the chairs next to the bed; Reginard’s brother Everard occupied the other chair. 

’Odovacar,’ Pimpernel said with a courtesy. 

’I came to pay my respects to my nephew,’ Odo said. He crossed to the bed, looking down. The hobbit could have been anyone, head and half his face swathed in bandages, the visible part bruised and swollen. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, the arm bandaged and splinted. He took up the limp right hand. ‘Would you leave us a moment, please?’ 

Startled, Pimpernel looked to Reginard. ‘Come, Nell,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all the better for a cup of tea. Rudi, why don’t you and Ev’ard escort Pimpernel to the second parlour? I’ll have some tea sent to you there.’ 

’It has been a long time, cousin,’ Rudivacar said, offering Pimpernel his arm and smiling into her eyes. She took his arm and answered politely, and the door closed behind them. 

Odovacar sank into the chair by the bed, still holding Ferdibrand’s hand. ‘Ferdi?’ he said softly. ‘Ferdi, do you hear me? It is your Uncle Odo.’ There was no response or sign that Ferdi was aware of his presence. Odo bowed his head a moment and then raised it again. ‘Ferdi, where is Estella?’ he whispered. ‘Where is my daughter?’ He squeezed the limp hand, but there was no answering squeeze. 

He thought of the irony in the situation. He and Ferdinand Took had been closer than brothers. Now it seemed both had lost their daughters (though Ferdinand could reclaim his, if he would only soften his stiff neck), and both were about to lose their sons. 

How could he take this news back to Rosamunda? How could he go back, empty-handed, to Freddy? How, for that matter, could he sit and watch his son slip away? 

’Ferdi,’ he said again. The fingers twitched in his own and he leaned forward. 

’Twig,’ Ferdi whispered, and was silent once more. 

*** 

’Twig!’ Merry reined in his pony at the anguished scream. He saw a small figure burst from the woods ahead of him, pursued by another twice its size, rapidly gaining, murder and rage in every line. Merry leaned forward, drawing his sword as he urged Bright Nose to the pony’s fastest pace. 

The runners did not see him coming up behind them, intent as they were on their deadly race. He swung and the ruffian fell, just as his fingers had grasped at the fleeing hobbit lad’s shirt. 

’Twig!’ the call came again from the wood, now behind them. The hobbit lad collapsed, sucking in air, as Merry jumped down from the saddle. 

’Are you all right, lad?’ he asked. 

The lad nodded, beyond speech for the moment. Soon another hobbit lad reached them, gasping. 

’I thought you were dead!’ he said. ‘I thought he’d have you for sure!’ 

’What happened?’ Merry asked. 

’Thank you, sir, thank you,’ the second hobbit lad gasped. ‘You saved my cousin for certain!’ He gulped down air, and was finally able to answer. ‘We were gathering nuts,’ he said, ‘when that ruffian came from nowhere and grabbed me round the neck.’ He added indignantly, ‘I couldn’t breathe! Why would he do such a thing?’ 

He slapped Twig, still bowed and straining for breath, on the back. ‘Twig here threw a stone at him, struck him fair in the nose! He dropped me and took out after Twig, and I thought he was a goner...’ 

’I thought I was a goner, too,’ Twig gasped, then straightened and held out a grimy hand. ‘My thanks to you, sir,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re one of the knights who’s driven the ruffians from the Shire.’ 

There was a touch of irony in the husky young voice, and Merry glanced at him sharply. ‘We are still driving them from the Shire, you mean,’ he said. ‘And you lads ought to stay close to home until we’ve finished the job.’ 

’You can be sure of that,’ Twig’s cousin said with a definite nod. 

’Come on,’ Merry said. ‘I’ll take you home.’ He climbed up on Bright Nose again and lifted one lad to sit before him, the other to sit behind, and let them direct him to the farmstead with its cosy hobbit hole dug into the Green Hills. 

He left them off with a warning to Twig's aunt to keep the lads close at home, and keep a bow handy. Recovered from their fright, the lads waved jauntily at him as he took his leave, Twig’s grin reminding him of a young Fredegar Bolger. That shouldn’t surprise him, Freddy was half Took, after all. 

With a last wave, he turned his pony around and kneed him into a fast pace, to catch Pippin and his troop of archers who’d left the Smials at first light this morning. 

(’You’re late,’ Reginard Took had said as Merry rode up when it was nearly elevenses. ‘Grab a bite to eat. Pip’s already gone, down the Stock Road towards Woody End. He said you could catch him if your pony’s fast enough.’) 

Merry grinned, caressing his pony’s neck. ‘He’s more than fast enough,’ he said. 


	15. Pouncing on Fredegar

By the time Anise Grubb returned to the Cotton Farm just before sunrise, they’d managed to get several teacups’ worth of good food—apple compote, custard, and lightly scrambled eggs with minced bacon mixed in—into Fredegar. She pronounced herself satisfied, told them to keep up the good work, and promised to return later that day. Rosamunda arose from her bed, all the better for the rest, and was able to greet her son with a smile and some breakfast. 

’Are you tiring of milk toast, my love?’ she asked fondly. Freddy closed his eyes in exasperation and his mother chuckled. ‘Yes, dearie,’ she said. ‘We _are_ feeding you again, so you might as well eat it up quickly, if you want time to rest between feedings.’ 

When he’d finished, she stroked his hair back from his forehead. ‘You’re as shaggy as a sheep in the springtime,’ she murmured, and he winced, his look turning inwards again. ‘Don’t go away like that, Freddy-lad,’ she said sharply. ‘Freddy!’ 

’What’s wrong, cousin Rosa?’ Frodo said, entering the room with a tray. Putting the tray down, he proceeded to pour out tea for the two of them. 

’He’s gone off again,’ Rosamunda said. ‘I mentioned him needing a haircut and he went away. I cannot seem to bring him back.’ 

’At least he won’t wriggle when you cut his hair,’ Frodo said practically. ‘Do you remember the time I visited, and Estella awakened before the rest of the household and gave Freddy and me haircuts as we slept?’ He’d worn a cap for days afterward, refusing to take it off even when chided for rudeness by old Master Rorimac. 

He poked Freddy. ‘Freddy, you _do_ remember Estella’s skill with shears, do you not?’ Freddy moved irritably, but at least he was attending to the conversation. Frodo and Rosamunda sat quietly conversing until Mistress Cotton appeared with a covered cup. 

’Here we are!’ she carolled, ‘Lovely coddled eggs mixed up with a bit of buttered toast.’ 

Frodo poked Freddy again. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ he said cheerily. ‘That’s what Pippin always says when he wants to annoy me.’ 

’It’s a traditional phrase amongst the Tooks,’ Rosamunda said dryly. 

’Leave me be,’ Freddy whispered, turning his face away. 

’Well,’ Frodo said, raising his eyebrows. ‘We got three words out of him that time. I think he’s improving!’ He reached for cup and spoon. ‘If I may, Mrs Cotton...’ 

’Be my guest,’ Mrs Cotton smiled, handing him the cup. ‘I’ve a cock-a-leekie soup wanting my attention at the moment!’ She nodded to Rosamunda and left the room. 

’All right, cousin,’ Frodo said. ‘You’ve a name to regain and a reputation to live up to. Where would the gossips of the Shire be without a “Fatty Bolger” to toast with their teacups, eh? Just think, you haven’t sent Merry a waggonload of apples in months!’ 

Rosamunda smiled at Frodo’s nonsense, even as he badgered and bullied Freddy into eating the entire cupful of food. 

So it went through the day. When Odovacar returned from Tuckborough at teatime, he was surprised to see his son taking solid food, even if it required patient coaxing on Samwise’s part. 

’Come, Master Freddy,’ the gardener said. ‘My old gaffer grew these potatoes himself, and Rosie has done them to a turn, I’ll have you know. Don’t you let them go to waste!’ He looked up and rose hastily. ‘Good day, Mr Bolger,’ he said formally. 

Odo waved him back to his chair. ‘Sit down; it looks as if you’re doing a fine job.’ 

Sam sat back down and brought another spoonful of creamy potatoes mixed with melting cheese to Freddy’s mouth. ‘He’s doing all the work, sir,’ he said. _And hard work he is making of it_ , he added to himself. _He acts as if we’re tormenting him with each mouthful._

Rosamunda entered with a kiss for her husband. ‘Where’s Estella?’ she asked. 

He returned the kiss, then put his arm around her. He’d had a long ride from Tuckborough to decide exactly what he was going to say in Fredegar's presence. ‘The Tooks have put her away for safekeeping,’ he said, ‘and with ruffians still to be found in the Shire, they’re a bit too busy to fetch her back again.’ 

’More pity the Tooks,’ Frodo said, coming in. ‘I don’t know what’s worse, a few score of ruffians to hunt down, or Estella set amongst them like a cat amongst the pigeons.’ 

’What in the world do you mean?’ Rosamunda asked, and Frodo laughed. 

’She likes to pounce on people,’ he said simply. ‘Take it from me, I’ve been pounced upon plenty!’ The Bolgers laughed, remembering notable occasions, and even Freddy smiled faintly, a fact that did not escape Frodo’s notice. 

’Just as well the Tooks are sitting on her somewhere,’ he continued. ‘Were she here, she’d probably bounce Freddy right out of the bed and into mischief.’ 

’No doubt,’ Freddy whispered, and his parents exchanged hopeful glances. 

’You’re looking much better than when last I saw you, son,’ Odo said. ‘I think we’ll stay here a few days at the Cottons’ if you don’t mind.’ 

’I don’t mind,’ Freddy answered, his voice growing stronger, ‘if only they’d leave off stuffing my face every hour of the day.’ He sounded more the old Freddy, in tone if not in words, and Frodo felt a tightness ease inside of himself. 

’That’ll continue until you’re back on your feet, so you might as well set your mind to making a quick recovery,’ Frodo said with a mock scowl, hands on his hips. 

’Just one more bite,’ Samwise broke in, hefting the spoon. Freddy reached for it with his right hand, noticing the bandages as if for the first time. ‘Let me, Mr Freddy,’ Sam said, popping the spoon into Fredegar’s mouth. 

Freddy chewed and swallowed. ‘What mischief have I done to my hand?’ he asked. 

’You’ve broken some fingers,’ Frodo answered. ‘Don’t you remember?’ 

Freddy furrowed his brow. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Everything seems to be foggy at the moment.’ 

’It’ll all come clear to you in time,’ Frodo said. He shook his head slightly at Odo and Rosa. _Now is not the time._ They nodded at the tacit warning and Rosamunda sat down, taking Freddy’s left hand in her own, directing the conversation to safer matters. 

The healer was very happy to find Freddy lucid and no longer refusing food, though he still did not ask for anything, being content to be fed whatever they brought him. He meekly accepted each spoonful without enthusiasm, but at least he was eating. 

’Why should I ask for anything?’ he said to Frodo after Anise Grubb had taken her leave. ‘You’re just going to bring me more in an hour or so anyhow.’ 

’Right you are, cousin!’ Frodo said, patting Freddy’s good hand. ‘Right you are, at that!’ He stretched and yawned. ‘Well I think I will take myself off for another nap!’ he said. ‘This business of being a new father is exhausting, what with being up all hours of the night to feed the babe, and all!’ 

’Waaah,’ Freddy said, in creditable imitation of a newborn, and Frodo laughed. 

’You sound as if you’re nearly back to yourself,’ he said approvingly. 

’I am,’ Freddy retorted, ‘so why don’t the lot of you stop badgering me and let me get some rest?’ 

’Hah,’ Frodo said. ‘Your problem is that you haven’t had enough badgering lately, and so we are going to badger you until you’re all recovered and fat as you ever were, or my name isn’t Frodo Baggins!’ 

’It’s not,’ Freddy said. 

’Eh? What was that?’ Frodo asked, confused. 

’It’s “Mayor Frodo”, and don’t you forget it,’ Freddy said. 

’You _did_ hear me and Merry talking last night!’ Frodo said. ‘I thought you were asleep!’ 

’How a body could sleep with the two of you jabbering away, I’d like to know,’ Freddy grumbled. 

’You may call me “Deputy Mayor Frodo”, or “Deputy Mayor”, or simply “Your Excellancy” will do,’ Frodo said with dignity. 

’Just don’t call him late to supper,’ Sam said, and Freddy looked at him in astonishment. He couldn’t recall ever hearing Sam put together an entire sentence before, without stammering and blushing. 

’Are you the same Samwise Gamgee who gardens up at Bag End?’ he said. 

’That I am,’ Sam said calmly. 

’He’s grown a bit,’ Frodo said. ‘After killing a nasty spider on our journeys, there’s not much that can cow our Samwise.’ 

’A nasty spider, eh?’ Freddy said. ‘Next time I find one on the wall, I’ll know whom to call upon to deliver me from my peril.’ 

’You do that, Mr Freddy,’ Sam said equably. ‘I’d be happy to pull a few weeds whilst I’m at it.’ 

’Always ready to be of service, our Sammy is,’ Freddy said. He sighed. ‘I think I’ll take myself a nap, as well,’ he said. Rosamunda obligingly pulled several pillows out from behind him so that he could lie down and snuggle into the cushions on the bed. 

’You do that,’ Frodo echoed, patting him on the shoulder. He rose and gave Rosamunda a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be up for the midnight feeding,’ he said. ‘You can count on me.’ 

He chuckled as he left the room, hearing Freddy’s ‘One, two, three, four...’ behind him. 


End file.
